


The Light of the Sea

by Aearyn



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-29 06:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aearyn/pseuds/Aearyn
Summary: A self indulgent bunch of nonsense about my OC falling for the Prince of Dol Amroth during the Siege of Minas Tirith and the Battle of the Black Gate. Refers to happenings in game as well as in book lore, but does not exactly follow nor quote from quest chains in the book. Moreso 'occasionally paraphrases'.





	1. Chapter 1

Prince Imrahil was tall, broad, commanding. Calaear was not cowed by any means – she’d dealt with men of his rank before – but she couldn’t help being a little awed by his presence.

A brief expression of puzzlement flashed in his grey eyes when they met hers, but he merely gave a polite nod. “I appreciate you coming to speak with me. Mithrandir speaks highly of you,” he said, his tone serious, but warm.

“Of course, my lord – and I thank you for your assistance with Faramir and his company. Were it not for you none of us would have made it back. I am in your debt.”

“I am just happy my men and I arrived in time. Faramir now rests in the Tower, may the healers find a way to bring him back from this injury. Also,” he stood a little straighter. “I hear you have aided my daughter, Lothiriel, in my absence. After this errand, I would speak with you about Dol Amroth.”

Calaear should have guessed that even during a time of war a Prince would have information channels, ones that would alert him of goings-on in his home city. “As you wish, my lord.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and she wondered if he was secretly laughing at her, but she had no idea what for; she’d been nothing but polite…

“In any case, I’d like you to go check on Ingold at the Northern Rammas Gate,” he went on, and proceeded to explain his errand to her.

“When you return, please meet me in the South Guesthouse, and you can tell me what transpired with my daughter.”

Calaear blinked. “Do you not…have rooms in the Guesthouse just across from the Tower?”

He smiled slightly, and looked so much younger and less imposing for a moment that Calaear almost forgot what they were speaking of. “I actually have rooms _in_ the Tower, but I haven’t the time to ride up to the top of the city just to have a bath or take a meal, I usually eat with my officers in the Soldiers’ Tier. But I feel that might be awkward since you are not, technically, a soldier.”

She cleared her throat. “Of course, my lord. I will…speak to you upon my return then.” She nodded and as one of his officers approached him with a report, she went to the stables for her horse.

***

Several hours later, she poured water from a pitcher over head in the small tub in her room in the Old Guesthouse. She occasionally used the baths, but it seemed the height of rudeness to wash orc blood into the waters where others bathed.

She’d cut down quite a few of them, and thought with satisfaction of the two she’d gotten in one swoop when she jumped out of that orchard tree. Speaking of orchards…did Gondorian guest houses perhaps serve cider as well as ale? She hadn’t had a chance to ask but determined to do so at the next opportunity.

Which would be when she spoke with Prince Imrahil again.

She rolled her eyes at the faint queasiness that assailed her when she thought of it. There was no reason to be nervous – yes, he was a Prince, but she was no blushing maiden to swoon at a conversation with such a man. She was at ease around Aragorn, and he was of even nobler blood…not that his true lineage was common knowledge.

Much like her own.

Twenty minutes hence she sat down at a table in a private dining room of the South Guest House, one which was already laden with quite a bit of food. Apparently the Prince was expected; she wondered if his dining here put the entire establishment into an uproar.

She didn’t have time to think of it; a serving girl entered with a pitcher of ale, and just as she was asking about the availability of cider, the Prince arrived.

“Yes of course, ma’am, we have seven varieties and I recommend you taste them all right now as we won’t be getting any more any time soon with all the outer farms getting emptied due to the—oh!” suddenly the girl realized the Prince was standing patiently behind her, and blushed crimson as she hopped out of the way. “My lord,” she addressed him with a deep curtsey, “did you want the ale or would you like the…the—”

Calaear had stood as soon as she noticed him, and was glad for the serving girl’s distraction. Imrahil had his helmet under his arm, and his black hair – liberally streaked with gray – was pulled back. Seeing him without the helmet softened his features dramatically, but for some reason this did not calm the slight case of nerves Calaear was battling; in fact, it made them worse. Odd.

“The cider,” he was saying. “If you would, please bring two or three of the best – I know what my favorite is but our friend here should be allowed to decide for herself.”

She curtseyed again, and practically stumbled out. Imrahil shook his head.

“The staff when I first arrived got used to me dining here on occasion, but most of them have vacated the city, as well they should. I don’t know why the rest of them stay – they must know war is imminent. But I suppose they have their reasons.”

He seemed to get a good look at her finally, and that puzzled look came across his face again. “You remind me of someone, and I can’t quite…put my finger on it,” he murmured, eyes intent on her face. Suddenly it occurred to her that…

Imrahil might have known her father. Been friends with him, even. But surely…it had been nearly forty years since he’d died, there was no way…

She didn’t want to have it bandied about who he was; she never had. Only some of her closest friends among the Rangers and of course Mithrandir knew the truth. But a sliver of doubt flashed through her mind. What if…he could tell her about him? What if she finally got to know the truth about the man her mother had so loved, but whom she’d kept secret almost until she died?

“I apologize for seeming intrusive, but may I ask where you are from? Mithrandir merely said you were a friend to the Rangers, among many others, and had grown up among them?”

She swallowed, and only strength of will kept her from looking away. “My mother’s father was a Ranger, yes,” she dodged, knowing as she did so that he wouldn’t accept such an inadequate answer.

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t push her. “I can see you do not wish to speak of it. Very well – I owe you your privacy, at the very least.” She couldn’t prevent a tiny sigh of relief, and only hoped he didn’t hear it as he gestured her to retake her seat, then sat across from her.

“I did not expect you back so early from the North Gate – tell me, did you have trouble?”

Now she sighed in earnest. “Let us say that the absence of the workers is not the only thing that would prevent Gondorians drinking cider this summer,” she answered rather drily. “I dispatched no less than 16 orcs who were sneaking about in the orchards—”

“The orchards _inside_ the wall?”

They paused a moment as the serving girl returned with a tray bearing several small pitchers of cider and glasses, which she set on the table. Once this was done they ate as they spoke.

“Yes, unfortunately, and Ingold used this as proof that he needed to remain and finish with repairs, but I believe I convinced him to return with haste. Despite my small efforts they are in no way safe at the wall. I came back to give you a report, but I plan to go out once again this evening to check the status of Crithost and Cair Andros. I fear they must also be in danger.”

Imrahil’s eyes narrowed. “That is likely, if there are orcs inside the Rammas wall.” He shook his head. “You must not go back out tonight – it is nearly dark already. Go at first light.”

Her chin raised a fraction of an inch. “Tell me, Prince Imrahil,” she asked politely, but with faintly flared nostrils, “is that what you would tell one of your Swan Knights? Your _male_ soldiers?”

His mouth quirked again. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied with a little chuckle, “especially since very few of them have likely killed 16 orcs, alone, in the space of an hour or two.”

Properly abashed, she looked away. “Oh. I…that is, I did not mean to sound—”

“There is no need to backtrack, Calaear, I’m guessing you kept a very exact count.” He still seemed amused, and she still felt a bit offended.

“I did, yes. 16 inside, six outside, but the ones outside the wall seemed to retreat just after I arrived, which is another thing that worries me about the outlying holdings.”

A rumble sounded in his chest as he contemplated this, taking a long drink of one of the paler ciders that he’d poured himself from the row of pitchers between them. “Very well, if you insist on heading back out tonight I will not keep you much longer. But I wish to hear at least briefly of your stay in Dol Amroth.”

She obliged him, and told him – in much reduced terms – the tale of her interaction with the Corsairs on his daughter’s behalf. She tried to be as truthful as possible without painting the girl in a negative light – she was young, and headstrong, but she was doing well with the responsibility that had been thrust upon her, and which should rightfully belong to her brothers, if they weren’t off at far flung locations due to increasing hostilities from the agents of Sauron.

He sighed, but he was smiling. “I am glad to hear your assessment of the situation, Calaear. It relieves me greatly to hear she is adjusting. When I heard that Boromir was gone, I confess I worried a bit for her…she was quite fond of him. But…”

Calaear tilted her head. “I think she took the news in stride; she was upset, but she will manage. You do know she was not…in love with him, so…”

“Ah. That was what I was afraid of. But she would never speak to me of such things, and I couldn’t tell if her dissatisfaction with their engagement was because she did not wish to marry him, or because she disliked the way it was done.”

He looked up. “I apologize for ruminating on such a personal matter in your presence,” he said ruefully. “Please, tell me what you thought of my beloved city?”

Calaear could not resist this plea – the beauty of Dol Amroth was a subject she could wax on indefinitely.

Nor could she prevent the slightly dreamy expression that settled on her face. “That blue gauze fluttering in the breeze! The ships! The gulls…I’d only heard of it third hand, you see, my mother told me of it but she’d never seen it either… So many merchants, and the Great Hall! And the Library!” She nearly bounced in her seat. “The library was quite my favorite – I had precious few books as a child, most of them very dry works about healing herbs and such, but to find such an enormous house just for books… Suffice it to say that Dol Amroth is one of my absolute favorite cities, and I dearly hope I’m able to return someday…”

Suddenly she realized she’d gotten carried away, and Imrahil was looking at her strangely.

“I…apologize, I must sound like a rustic,” she laughed nervously, downing the rest of her cider. She hastily stood. “I should head out soon, if I’m to check in on Cair Andros tonight.”

Prince Imrahil stood with her. “Your praise for my city warms my heart, Ranger,” he said softly, and his sincerity was so evident it brought a little smile to her lips.

A smile that withered at his next words.

“I know who you remind me of, now, Calaear. _‘Light of the Sea’_.”

Calaear’s eyes widened, but she said nothing – he could be thinking of anyone, it needn’t be—

“My lord, there you are!” One of Imrahil’s Swan Knights burst into the room. “And Ranger, we’ve need of you as well – someone’s come from Cair Andros, the island's overrun!”


	2. Chapter 2

Calaear swallowed a curse as she hurried out of the room after the knight. Imrahil was tossing out orders – it seemed in the short time since she spoke to him about Faramir this morning, he’d practically taken over running the city. Denethor had closeted himself in the tower with his son whose health was rapidly deteriorating, and could not be prevailed upon to make any decisions.

Which made the fact that he’d spent nearly an hour drinking cider with her in the South Guest House even more questionable.

He turned to her as she began to dash off to the stables, and put a hand on her arm.

“Be careful, if you please,” was all he said, and she gave him a nod. He let her go.

She rode as fast as she could to the North Gate; she hoped Ingold had made it back to the city. She should have stayed; she shouldn’t have returned, should have gone on to Crithost and Cair Andros immediately after—

But she knew that would have been folly; she’d only arrived at the city this morning, after fighting off Sauron’s forces in Osgiliath all night long. She shouldn’t push herself too much or she’d be useless when the real battle occurred. Besides, now there were soldiers riding just ahead of her – although she would soon overtake them – and they would do a better job of helping escort any civilians back to the city while she picked off their attackers.

It took them several minutes to reach the wall, but all was calm there. Ingold and his men were packing up, thank goodness, and she didn’t bother stopping; clearly whatever stories they’d heard were enough to motivate them.

When they finally reached Crithost, they found what was left of the survivors of Cair Andros.

Tolwin, 12 at most, the son of the Lord of Cair Andros, who’d been murdered in front of him along with his brothers.

Calaear winced as she listened to this tale, but they didn’t have the luxury of time at the moment.

“You’ve done a good job keeping the people’s morale up,” she told him. “I’ll find your mother, meanwhile soldiers will be here in just a minute to escort you all into the city. It isn’t safe here.”

“But all these injured,” he mumbled, looking around at the wounded civilians littering the hall of Crithost. She didn’t know how they were going to get them all back, but they couldn’t leave them here. Cair Andros was so close, only twenty minutes’ ride – the enemy could be upon them any minute, if they decided to make a push.

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” she assured him with false confidence.

When the Gondorian troops arrived behind her, she quickly gave them her assessment of the situation.

She was used to getting cheek or even outright refusals from soldiers – she wasn’t one of them, she was a Ranger, who at best had no influence, and at worst was suspicious, shady.

To her surprise, the soldier merely nodded. “We’ve got wagons coming for the injured, we’ll handle getting these people out, and we’ve been instructed to follow your direction regarding how to evade or combat the enemy.”

She blinked. They’d been…what?

Prince Imrahil. He must have told them she had at least some authority, knowing that she was familiar with orcs and their ilk. Smart.

She ignored that nervous twist in her belly and turned back to find her horse. She rattled off some instructions regarding where to post sentries, and set a few soldiers to repairing barricades at the northern end of the town. They wouldn’t keep out any sizeable force, but might buy the defenders some time if enemies arrived before they were done with evacuations.

Tolwin had said someone caught sight of a person that could be his mother heading toward one of the farmhouses out in the fields north of Crithost, and Calaear took off in that direction, pausing every so often to try and catch a clue of her quarry – a footprint, a scrap of cloth. There were orcs lurking in the fields already, although nothing she couldn’t handle, and she picked them off almost absent-mindedly in between scanning the ground for sign.

The only good thing about orcs was that you could hear them coming a mile away.

Finally she found what she was looking for, a series of indentations in the browning grass around one of the farmhouses. But the person she followed hadn’t gone inside…

She followed the tracks, disappearing in places, between the houses; twice on the near-invisible path she found dead orcs. Could Tolwin’s mother Dúneth be doing this?

The night was getting too dark for Calaear to see the clues very clearly, when finally they became a little more distinct, even in the dying light.

Ahead, there was a camp, hidden in a little bowl between two hills.

She threw the reins of her horse over a limb and hurried forth, hands held out to ensure she didn’t end up in a tussle with Dúneth.

The woman sheathed her sword as Calaear approached, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Well you’re clearly not an orc, so I’m guessing you’ve come from Crithost. Is my son well?”

Ten minutes later they were back at Crithost, both riding on Calaear’s horse, and she’d found out that Dúneth was a well-trained warrior in her own right. But there were too many orcs between her and the town; without a horse, it would have been folly to run across the open fields.

Calaear expressed her admiration for the woman’s courage, as well as her relief at finding her alive and being able to reunite her with her son, after everything that had happened to both of them.

When they returned, only Tolwin and a few others remained; few orcs had harried the town while the citizens were escorted out, and Calaear brought up the rear as the last of the residents of Crithost and Cair Andros were led to the city.

Almost the full procession was through the North Gate of the Rammas Wall when they were attacked.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Calaear heard the snuffling of wargs long before they were close enough to be a danger; eyes out into the dim fields – unlit by stars that were hidden from view by the thick cloud of roiling darkness above them – she caught the flash of a torch reflected in the eyes of one of the beasts, and she shouted at the soldiers to protect the civilians.

She wheeled about, bow in hand almost before the thought even occurred to her. In this darkness, it would not be as much like target practice as it had been earlier today.

But another gleam from a hated warg eye caught her attention, and she swiftly aimed, and just after her arrow flew had the satisfaction of a snarl as the warg and its rider went down.

Now they were just outside the gates, and the torches all around it lit up their pursuers as they approached from behind.

More than she’d anticipated…where had they come from? East, it must be; had they crossed the river or just followed it south and then along the wall?

None of that mattered; now she could see them, and she released arrow after arrow into their midst, felling one, then four, then seven.

That was nearly half, but she’d spent many of her arrows killing the enemies in the fields outside Crithost, and now she only had one left.

She spotted what she assumed was an orc captain – heavier armor, fancier helmet, bigger warg. And put an arrow straight through his neck. He toppled from his mount, but the warg kept coming, as did the remaining orcs, some mounted, some on foot.

She traded her bow for her short swords, and risked a glance behind her. It looked like the wounded were safe, but she wasn’t happy to see Tolwin and his mother jump off the last wagon through the gate and turn to face their attackers.

“Please, do not linger! We can handle the rest of them,” she called to them with a shake of her head.

“We can fight, we can help!” Tolwin insisted, but when Calaear met his mother’s eyes, courageous but pleading, she could not allow it.

“You have seen enough death this day,” she argued. “I would not have you see any more. And a poor Ranger I would be if I let the last of the ruling family of Cair Andros be injured or killed!”

“Come, Tolwin, she’s right – we’re both too tired to be of any use,” Dúneth urged her son. “We should help our people by staying safe.”

Calaear had already turned around, waiting for their enemies to reach them, but she heard Tolwin’s heavy sigh, and trusted his mother and the soldiers to see him through the gate and to safety.

She whipped up her sword as a thick arrow from one of the enemy’s heavy shortbows flew in her direction, but it wouldn’t have hit her anyway. They were not very skilled – another good thing to say about orcs. Two compliments in one day – a record, she thought drily as the disgusting creatures closed with them.

She lunged forward and underneath the foremost warg, slicing his belly open as she rolled past, then whirled around and slashed a broad arc with her swords, catching its rider in the chest when he fell off.

Several more went down before the swords of the Gondorian soldiers; she had just enough attention to spare to note that they, unlike the orcs, were extremely adroit in battle.

She darted in one direction, then another, using flexibility and speed to dance around and through her enemy’s defenses. Sometimes it took her a few good blows to fell the larger orcs – their hides were thick and leathery like a damned Mumak.

After fifteen minutes of intense combat, the last orc was felled, and Calaear looked around to ascertain the casualties among her colleagues.

There was only one soldier who’d been pierced between the shoulder plates of his armor by an orc arrow; Calaear guessed the toxins that were likely on the point were more dangerous than the arrow wound itself.

She gave a whistle, and her horse trotted out from inside the North Gate; but as she reached up to mount a sharp pain in her arm caused her to gasp. Suddenly she realized her sleeve was wet…with blood. One of the orc blades must have caught her in the crease of her leather arm guards.

“Damnation! I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, and the soldier she’d spoken to in Crithost approached her, after seeing that his wounded man was safely on the way to the city.

“Ranger – seems you’ve also sustained an injury. I’ll never understand how you all fight without real armor. Do you need assistance?”

She chuckled ruefully. “I’ll have you know that’s the first injury greater than a scratch that these bastards have given me.” But she accepted his help, and managed to get back into the saddle.

The two of them and two other soldiers managed to close the gates, whatever good that would do – there were still weak points in the wall, as much as Ingold had tried to repair it.

Calaear left the soldiers to guard the rear of the procession once more, and hurried ahead to let Prince Imrahil know of what had transpired, and that their enemies were creeping closer and closer with every breath.


	4. Chapter 4

“Where is the Prince?” she tossed out as she hopped off her horse, ignoring the throb in her arm when she landed, and gratefully handed off the reins to a stable attendant. Normally she liked to care for her own horse, but she needed to put salve on her arm before it festered and even more urgently she needed to speak to Prince Imrahil.

“I believe he’s in the—”

“Ranger Calaear!” The knight who’d interrupted her conversation with the Prince earlier galloped up behind her.  “The Prince has requested your presence at the war table in the Soldier’s Tier as soon as you returned.”

She blinked. She was no strategist, nor was she the only person here who’d fought orcs before. Her skepticism must have shown in her face.

“I believe he merely wishes you to give a report of the state of the outlying areas, Ranger.”

“Oh. I see. Very well, let me get a fresh horse and I’ll—”

“You – get this woman a fresh horse immediately!” the soldier practically barked at the stable attendant, who merely bowed and hurried to lead her tired mount into the stable. Calaear gave a little sigh, but there was little she could do; these knights did indeed take precedence in the city during a time of war. But he needn’t be so peremptory.

A moment later she was on another horse and following the knight as he cantered swiftly through the streets; she hoped he hadn’t noticed the difficulty with which she’d mounted, her left arm held awkwardly against her. 

In a few minutes they’d reached their destination; once she’d dismounted she discovered the most uncharacteristic urge to smooth her hair and straighten the leather plates of her Elven-made armor before entering the building. She quelled it, unsure what would possess her to think such a thing was necessary. The state of her clothes was hardly of paramount importance right now.

She trailed the knight through an entry hall into a large room in back, where the Prince and his captains huddled around a large table. He looked up as she approached; she gave him a little bow, trying to maintain etiquette in front of his soldiers, but he didn’t see it; his eyes immediately went to her arm, and she could see now in the bright torches of the room that the tan of her shirt was quite obviously soaked with blood, although the injury itself was mostly hidden by her arm guard.

Imrahil turned angrily to the knight who’d led her there. “I hardly meant for you to bring her to me before getting an injury tended to, Eradan!”

“I apologize, my lord, I didn’t realize—”

“Perhaps you should have your eyes checked!”

“My lord!” Calaear interrupted, feeling increasingly awkward and wishing only to give her report and begone. “I intended to seek you out with all haste regardless. He merely assisted me with a fresh horse. If you’ll allow me to speak my piece I will take care of this myself as soon as may be. It is of no consequence.”

He stared at her, and she could tell by the way he pursed his lips that she hadn’t heard the last of what he wished to say on the subject. But he nodded.

Briefly she told him that Cair Andros was indeed overtaken, its lord slain, along with half his family. He winced, almost imperceptibly, and suddenly it occurred to her that Tolwin’s father could have been a friend to the Prince. She should have been more gentle relating the news…but there was nothing to be done about it now.

She finished her tale, and answered some questions put to her by the Swan Knights. She began to feel a bit off, and hoped with all her being that she wasn’t about to faint due to loss of blood – surely her injury had not been that severe, despite the state of her clothes.

The knights began to discuss the situation amongst themselves, and Calaear glanced back to the Prince, asking with a look to be dismissed. He squinted at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and quickly turned to go, not waiting for his confirmation.

She made it just outside the door before she had to lean against the wall. She practically _felt_ pale, and eyed the horse she’d ridden up on, gauging the likelihood of getting back onto it unaided in order to head back to her room and perform some rudimentary healing on her arm.

But just as she was about to attempt it, the Gondorian soldier from Crithost arrived.

“Ranger! Have you not had your arm seen to yet?” he demanded, dismounting in a hurry.

“I was just about to, if you’d kindly lend me your aid again,” she admitted with a weary chuckle.

He said nothing, but rather than just assist her he picked her fully up and set her on top of the horse.

“Get thee to the Houses of Healing,” he said sternly. “We can’t afford for such a good fighter to be put out of commission. There’s more orcs out there to kill, my lady!”

She smiled warmly through her exhaustion, and reached her good hand down to him; they gripped each other’s forearms for a moment, and then she was off.

## ***

She'd almost reached the gate to the first tier when she thought perhaps the soldier had been right, and she should go to the House of Healing, but it was too late for that; it was too far, she likely wouldn’t make it. Her best bet was to get to her room – she had supplies there. She knew now she should have taken her arm pieces off on the way back to the city and applied balm to her wound on the way; she always carried a bit with her. But she hadn’t thought it necessary, and now look where she was.

Uncle Halbarad would be horrified at her carelessness.

She practically oozed out of the saddle outside the Old Guesthouse. Thankfully her rooms were on the main floor – she might not have reached it if it were up the stairs. She was already yanking at the ties to her leather armor as she trudged down the hall, and burst into her room with her last bit of energy.

She shoved the door to and began peeling out of her armor and clothes, finally revealing the ugly wound that had somehow snuck in through the minimal space between two sections of her arm guards. She seriously doubted that it was the skill of her attackers that had allowed this; it was merely luck, but it was ill luck that she couldn’t afford. Her rather bloodthirsty enjoyment of killing orcs had led her to become reckless.

It was worse than she’d hoped, but not as bad as she feared. She managed to wash it, and put a foul smelling paste along the length of the gash before it could start bleeding again. She grimaced – it burned like the devil, but it was effective. She struggled to stay awake as she waited a minute or two for it to dry, so she could put a soothing salve over the whole area.

She knew she’d probably pass out soon, but she was in her room in the guest house, there was really no better place for her to do so. And now that she’d tidied her wound she felt more like she was a normal kind of exhausted, rather than weak from blood loss.

As soon as she wiped the balm from her hands, she fell back against the pillows, asleep.

## ***

She woke to a banging on the door, which had intruded into dreams that fled her mind even as she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Just a moment,” she called. She gingerly stretched her arm, and was relieved to find it was only sore now, not throbbing with pain, and the poultice had done its job. She shrugged into a clean shirt and splashed a bit of water on her face from the pitcher, and then began running her hands through tangled hair as she threw the door open.

She blinked. “M-my lord!”

Prince Imrahil strode into the room and shut the door behind him, making it uncomfortably crowded; it was barely big enough for her, and he in all his armor…

“What are you—”

“I’m sure you understand I could not speak my mind in front of my Captains last night,” he interrupted her sternly. “But you must know that—”

“First of all, what hour is it?” she interrupted him in turn.

He sighed. “It is nearly noon, which is why I came by myself to ensure you hadn’t perished from your injuries.”

“Curse it!” she exclaimed, annoyed. “What have I missed? What’s going on outside the walls?”

“One moment, if you please,” he replied, crossing his arms and looking down on her from his height advantage with an expression like a storm cloud. “I am well aware that Rangers don’t exactly operate the way soldiers do, but I must tell you that were you under my command I would be sorely put out by your actions!”

“Pardon me, my lord, but it appears you are sorely put out as it is.”

She said it with an absolutely straight face, but it seemed to take the wind out of his angry sails. He pursed his lips, looked away, and ran a hand over his silvering hair.

“Point taken. You are not one of my knights, so I suppose I’ve no right to chastise you.”

She didn’t respond, distracted by the unfamiliar knots in her stomach.

“But…I must say it would be a…” he fiddled with the straps on his armor, not looking at her. “A great tactical loss, if some ill were to befall you.”

She barely refrained from putting a hand to her belly, the acrobatics within it becoming almost painful. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate that you consider me an asset, my lord.”

He did look up then. “I wish you would consider _me_ as—”

A knock on the door cut off his words, and this time Calaear mentally cursed the interruption. She yanked the door open.

One of the guest house staff thrust a piece of folded parchment into her hands, and hurried off.

The paper bore the seal of the Steward.

She was being summoned to the Citadel.


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later, much cleaner and clad more appropriately for a visit with the Steward of Gondor, she found Pippin outside the doors to the Tower of Ecthelion, the small but well-fitting armor he wore making her feel amused but sad all at once.

“I’m sorry we haven’t been able to have our picnic yet,” she said, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

“Oh that’s alright, I hear you’ve been doing good deeds all over, as usual,” he said cheerfully.

But she heard something else behind it.

“Pippin? What’s amiss?”

He looked down, and his voice dropped to a bare whisper. “I have to tell you, Calaear…I’m a little…nervous, around the Steward. I’ll take you to him, but just…be wary, alright?”

Her brow lowered, but she nodded. “Thank you, friend.”

“It’ll be alright, I’m sure – let’s go on in, shall we?”

She sighed and followed him through the great doors…down an impossibly lofty hall lined with magnificent statues and braziers. The ceiling was fantastically carved, towering pillars holding up elegant arches. It was imposing, to be sure, but she’d seen greater – such as the 21st hall of Moria – although she certainly wasn’t about to tell Denethor that.

Just before they rounded a corner at the end of the hall, Pippin cleared his throat. “I’ll let you go on from here, Cal. See you afterwards, alright?”

She gave him a smile she was far from feeling, and proceeded to where Denethor sat in an ornate chair, nearly a throne, next to the fever-ridden, pale body of his son.

Only her decades as a Ranger kept her face from betraying her shock at Faramir’s state.

She knelt for a moment, head bowed, before the Steward of Gondor, careful not to let her eyes flicker to his only surviving son.

“The healers can do nothing for him now,” Denethor lamented, although he seemed more matter-of-fact than a man who was close to losing his one remaining child. “It is unfortunate that you could not have prevented this tragedy…”

Calaear judged it better to remain silent in the face of such an oddly accusatory statement.

He seemed to come out of a reverie, and stared at her with dark, close-set eyes. “Mithrandir speaks highly of you. I know you have done some good deeds for my city, little though that may accomplish.”

“I have merely leant my assistance where required,” she replied neutrally, unsure how to respond to his strange manner. She had to admit, this was not what she had expected of the Steward of Gondor. It was no wonder Prince Imrahil and Mithrandir were taking care of running the city…

“Still, perhaps I shall show you…”

He suddenly surged up from his chair. “Come, follow me.”

He led her up several flights of stairs, to a tower. A glowing orb was set on an ornate pedestal in the center of the room.

Calaear knew what it was; she’d never touched on herself, thankfully, but she was aware of the palantiri, of their power, and their curse. Whatever you looked at through its swirling depths…looked back.

“I brought you here to show you that I, too, wage war against the enemy, from this chamber! Though none may believe it!”

Calaear followed cautiously, not yet willing to cross him – he could have her killed at a moment’s notice, if he wished.

“Look into the stone, Ranger,” he whispered, and Calaear was forming the words of refusal when her eye was drawn to the shifting smoke whirling beneath the smooth surface of the sphere…

“Will you see what I have seen? I wonder…”

She must tell him…that she couldn’t…wouldn’t look into the…

She stepped forward. The colors swirled from one to the next, and as she drew closer she thought she could glimpse images…

She reached out—if she could just touch it, she would know—but no. She was a Ranger – she could withstand such temptations. She began to drop her hand, but suddenly Denethor’s covered it.

And pressed her palm to the cold surface of the stone.

***

Blurred images floated before her. Denethor though, she could see; his face was nearly as feverish as his son’s, albeit in a different manner. The stark clarity of his face against the hazy backdrop was disconcerting, and she could barely concentrate on his words as he explained to her everything that had happened – would happen? Was happening?

She blinked, and the scene had changed, but she still couldn’t quite make it out, and Denethor was speaking again, of the halfling – Frodo! How did he know about that? She wondered again if he still lived, although she knew in her heart that he must. Just then she caught a glimpse of a heartbreaking scene – a hobbit, cold and alone, curled up in a dark tower. Could this be…could Frodo have been captured?

She reeled at this possibility as her surroundings shifted again…she was back in the tower with Denethor.

She shook her head as if to clear it, but still didn’t feel quite right; that must be the after effects of using the seeing stone…

“These visions,” Denethor was saying, and she struggled to focus, “fill me with fear as never before. All of the things we most dread will come to pass.”

Calaear suddenly found herself outside the doors of the Tower, and Mithrandir was at the foot of the steps. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and trotted down to him to tell him what she’d seen.

Denethor’s negative outlook seemed to be proving correct even now, though, as Mithrandir informed her that the horde of Mordor was just outside the gates.

She gasped. They weren’t prepared – what about all those still outside the walls of the city? What about the south gate of the Rammas Wall? What about—

She held her head for a moment as she dismounted in the First Tier – she didn’t even remember riding all this way…damn that abominable rock! She should never have gotten close enough to touch it at all—

“Calaear! There you are – we need you to—”

“My lord?” she shouted above the din of orc drums outside the wall. She sprinted up the stairs to the top of the wall, her head pounding, but she ignored it. She ran up to him, but he didn’t look at her, merely directed her to a position, and she did as he requested, albeit with a new, additional weight heavy in her chest. Even in this dire situation, she thought perhaps he might spare a glance for her, but she had been foolish to expect it.

She shook her head; the catapults had been ineffective – they were moving off the walls – how long had she been up here? Hours? Days? The night was dark – hadn’t it been early afternoon when she spoke with Denethor…

The gates…

The gates had been breached.

The gnarled face of their abuser, Grond, was now still, peering between the great ruined doors like some beast of legend. Which it was – or at least, Calaear hoped that someday these events would be but legends told to children. And that Middle Earth would survive these atrocities.

But when Gothmog glided forward and challenged Mithrandir, her hope shied away from the dread he exuded.

And when he struck down the great wizard, hope failed, and she backed away, tears burning in her throat. If Gandalf could not withstand this horde, how could she? How could any of them?

She felt a tug at her sleeve, and turned to follow a soldier. “The halfling…” she thought she heard him say, but her head ached worse and worse; what was the point of any of this? But he was right, if she could save Pippin, she would have done something, at least, before they were overrun.

Suddenly she saw Imrahil up ahead; he shouted to her, and she sprinted towards him – perhaps both of them could get to safety—

“Calaear! Look out—”

She watched almost in slow motion as an arrow pierced straight through his breastplate.

She screamed as he fell to his knees, then to the ground. She ran, trying to reach him, but something…why couldn’t she close the distance…

She looked around. She was on the Pier...

She pressed hands to her throbbing temples, distraught.

Mithrandir…Imrahil…Duinhir, Duilin, who else had fallen on this dark eve? Or perhaps a better question was, who had _not_ …

And Gothmog…was here, along with some of his lackeys—

She saw movement from the corner of her eye, and saw Pippin running across, toward the Watch Point. She cheered him on, and faintly heard Denethor as if from far away, urging her little friend to escape.

But as she watched, rendered paralyzed by horror, a Nazgul swept across Pippin’s path, and grasped him with hated claws.

He was gone.

She sank to her knees, her entire body aching with the force of her anguish. After all they’d done, for it to come to this…how she wished she could hear some of Mithrandir’s comforting words, or Pippin’s optimism…

But they were gone. All of them.

Suddenly the first clear sound in what seemed like weeks reached her ears.

“This is what I have seen. This is the future, Ranger.”

***

She blinked. Struggled to keep her balance as the world reeled around her, then resolved into a room. A high room in the tower—

And there was Denethor. And the seeing-stone.

She shook her head to free it of the confusion that flowed through it like molasses.

He’d shown her his visions of what would come to pass. None of it was real!

She took her leave of him as quickly as she could manage, practically ran down the hundreds of stairs and out of the Tower; a small but clear voice hailed her.

“Cal! How did your audience go?”

She turned so fast she nearly stumbled. Tears sprang to her eyes as she observed her friend, well and whole, his little helmet gleaming in the early afternoon sun.

Unable to help herself, she knelt, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

He blinked in surprise, asking her why her mood was so odd, but she just laughed it off. “We will get through all this Pippin, I promise,” she murmured, then sprung up to sprint across the green and speak to Mithrandir.

She told him of what she’d seen, and he shook his head, dismayed at the thought of Denethor peering into that disastrous device. “If the Rohirrim do not arrive in time, Calaear, it is possible the events the Steward most fears shall indeed come to pass. But there is still much hope to be had. Come, I have requests for you.”

She spoke with him for several more minutes, then headed off to other tiers of the city to help with some important preparations for the war they knew was coming.

But it hadn’t arrived just yet, and her heart was buoyed by this knowledge. Perhaps Denethor had hoped to riddle her with despair by showing her those visions – and he had, for a short time. But now that she’d seen that possibility, she was even more determined to prevent it.


	6. Chapter 6

She left the stables, having spoken to Duilin – who seemed surprised at how pleased she was to see him, given her previous stoicism in the face of his and his brother’s effusiveness – and headed back to the Old Guest House, hoping to grab food as well as remove the fancy trappings she’d been stuck with since seeing Denethor. She should check on the state of her wound, perhaps apply a little more salve. She may have been pert in response to Prince Imrahil’s castigations, but he was right; she couldn’t afford to be taken out of the fight due to a stupid injury.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, he appeared as if summoned, just outside the guest house.

The sight of him, hale and full of life…she barely restrained herself from throwing her arms around his neck. As it was, her chin trembled slightly, and her eyes glittered with sudden tears.

“My lord,” she whispered, almost fervently, and immediately wished she could take it back. How strange she must sound…

“Calaear? Is…everything alright?” His own voice was quiet, concerned, and she nearly winced at how her name sounded on his lips.

She cleared her throat. “I…everything’s fine, it’s—never mind.” She cursed her stumbling tongue; she was never so clumsy.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, his grey eyes peering disconcertingly at her. “Perhaps this time we could speak without interruption,” he added ruefully, and she found herself nodding in agreement.

She shouldn’t – it was foolish to indulge herself this way. But…was it wrong to wish to spend a bit of time with a person she…admired? It was no different than having lunch with Pippin, she assured herself. Which she still needed to do, as she’d promised him when she got here.

She requested a few minutes to get out of her “royal get-up” as she referred to it, much to Imrahil’s amusement. She glanced into the mirror above the washbasin as she was changing out of her shiny tabard, and for a moment her attention was drawn to her scars. The new one on her arm would be just another to add to the list.

The one on her side had come from a duel with a Lossoth champion – that had been a good battle, and had won her many admirers among them. But it had taken weeks for her hip to heal, though she would never admit it to them. Another along her rib she’d received from some foe or other in Carn Dum – as with her arm, she’d not noticed until later, and she’d killed so many there…it was impossible to say.

The oldest, and most faded scar, on her collarbone… she stopped for a moment to think about the first person she’d ever killed. Another Ranger, who’d been driven mad by agents of Sauron, and had set upon the people in a small village…

Two of her kin lay dead because of him; they couldn’t do what was needed at the last moment, because he was their friend. She, on the other hand, didn’t know him well; was too young to have associated with him much.

It didn’t make it any easier, but at least she’d managed what the others had not.

She shook her head to rid herself of these useless memories; there was enough despair in the air now without her adding to it.

She started to put on her usual armor again, but hesitated. She hadn’t been without it for days now, weeks even – she’d barely even slept without it since she left Dol Amroth. She didn’t pause to question this urge to leave it off, though she usually had no complaint with the intricate Galadhrim armor that she’d had made in Lothlorien.

A short time later the Prince himself ushered her into the same little dining chamber in the South Guest House that they’d occupied before. There was already a pitcher of cider on the table, along with a simple arrangement of food.

But Calaear didn’t pay much mind to the food, yet. Prince Imrahil was staring at her.

Suddenly she felt self-conscious, which was unusual for her; as if her metaphorical armor was missing as well as the physical. She wished that she hadn’t left it off...

“You look very different without your armor,” he murmured, almost as if to himself.

It hit her abruptly that he was likely used to women wearing finery; lovely dresses and silks, not a loose linen shirt, leather pants, and boots. How ridiculous she must look to him! She’d never been ashamed of being a Ranger, and not some fancy noble lady, but she couldn’t stifle a faint blush of chagrin.

“I apologize, I should have put the armor back on—”

“No, it’s…” he cleared his throat, and her shame gave way to curiosity at his strange manner. “It’s nice,” he said finally, and she closed her eyes on a sigh. He was trying to be kind, avoid insulting her. Well, he hadn’t said anything rude, not technically.

“Listen, I believe we have things to speak of,” he said hurriedly, and she actually looked forward to a discussion about her lineage, given the alternative. She sat down and poured them both a drink, then downed hers without preamble.

He smiled very slightly, but didn’t take his gaze off her.

“It’s the eyes, you know.”

“I assumed, since no one else among us had them.” It was true; her mother, her uncle, and the rest of the Rangers had grey or perhaps blue eyes, some even a shade of green or hazel, but nothing like the blue-green color of hers. She lifted the eyes in question from her glass to his face. “Are they…very like his?”

He sighed, and seemed to look through her, at a distant past. “It’s been so long…thirty five years?”

“Thirty nine,” she said quietly, looking back at her drink.

“I saw him just before he went out. Two of our ships went with him, you know.”

“I did not! Were they lost as well?”

He gave a sad nod. “Only a few of my father’s Swan Knights made it back, out of all who set out – seven ships’ worth – and it took them weeks to return, hiding in the forests of Harondor until they could manage to cross back into Lebennin.”

She searched his eyes, hungry for the truth but not having realized it would be quite so tragic. She knew her father had perished at sea, but…had her mother known all this? That so many others were lost as well?

“Corsairs?”

He nodded again. “It was foolish to go, but Faltharan was eager to prove himself…he didn’t tell me why; we weren’t quite close enough for that, I suppose. Now, of course, I can understand…”

“Perhaps you can explain it to me, then!” Years of rampant conjecture and curiosity on her part made her voice a bit aggressive, but she didn’t care. She had to know. “All this time I assumed he just went back to his life and happened to die in the course of naval battles, but you’re saying there was some reason for it?”

“You mean…your mother knew nothing of his intentions?”

“She did not! He merely told her he would return – which I could have informed her was merely to placate her when he left – but how could he? She was raised among Rangers, she had no noble blood, what could he have done? And how could she have believed such nonsense?” The last was said in a whisper, as her pity for her mother rushed up within her, as it often did when she thought too closely of what she’d endured. “She was always so adamant…that he wanted to return, but his death had prevented it…but I was just as sure he never meant to…”

Imrahil startled her when he took her hand across the table. “I believe your mother was right, Calaear.”

“But what could make you say that, my lord?”

“His manner, when he returned from his journey in the north…he may not have confided in me, but he was…different. Obviously so. He seemed…impatient, irritable, and yet brighter, all at once.”

“It seems you were rather close after all, to notice this…”

“We had been, when we were younger. But by that time, I had married, had my first son, we didn’t spend as much time together any more. Life overtook us, widened the gap between.”

Calaear held her breath for a moment as he absently stroked the back of her hand with a calloused thumb; of course he would remove his gauntlets to eat dinner but she hadn’t…noticed before…

“I knew something had happened, something momentous. And then when he convinced Lord Sirgon to send him down to Umbar…I couldn’t believe he would do something so foolhardy. Umbar had been so quiet for decades, by then – but Faltharan insisted it was the best time to strike, retake the city for Gondor.” He shook his head, his gaze again fixated on past events. “Seven ships….as if that could be enough…you saw what their fleet is like, you know that could be no match for them.”

She remembered – perhaps, if there was a way to take out their leadership as she had in Pelargir, one could rout ten or even fifteen of the Corsair vessels, but to sail straight to their city…utter folly.

“Their ships had overrun Pelargir when I was there,” she whispered, “The city was made somewhat safe, but...I could not stay, though I dearly wished to…”

“You did right to come ahead to Minas Tirith,” Prince Imrahil insisted. “If we can crush the enemy here they will perforce be pushed out of Pelargir when the time comes; this is where the fight will be won or lost, as well you know.”

She nodded, but her breath caught. A few weeks ago, when she’d been there – the first time she’d ventured so far south – she had wanted to help her father’s people, though they knew her not. And at that time she’d thought him a cold womanizer, not…not this…young, reckless lover her mother had spoken of with stars in her eyes.

Her chin trembled, and she took a deep breath to hold back the tears that pooled in her eyes. “She loved him so,” she whispered, pulling the necklace she always wore out from under her shirt – an anchor with a silver star; her mother had worn it until the day she died, when she’d requested Calaear, almost with her dying breath, to wear it instead. She remembered how her mother had often smiled near the end of her life, gently touching the necklace, thinking of the man she hadn’t seen in over two decades…

A warm, rough hand touched her cheek; his thumb wiped away the single tear that escaped her.

She stared at him, wide eyed, a perplexing tangle of emotions warring in her chest. Her melancholy faded, overwhelmed by the raucous hammering of her heart.

 _Foolish woman_ , she thought with resignation, _this is nothing like having dinner with Pippin…_

Tentatively, slowly, arguing with herself over it the whole time, she raised her hand. And carefully put it over his where it rested against her face.

He made a noise that was half sigh, half laugh, and full of relief.

Her smile was unsure, a bit dazed, but sincere.

“I feel sure we’re about to be interrupted again,” he said softly, and she chuckled.

“It seems impossible we’ve been left undisturbed this long,” she agreed.

He turned his hand to grasp hers, and they rested their linked hands on the table.

“Calaear…”

She swallowed; somehow it was abruptly different, him saying her name.

“I wish you would tell me what had you so upset when I first came upon you this evening.”

Oh. That.

She took a deep breath. There was no reason not to tell him…he would keep the secret of the visions, she knew.

She briefly described the events she’d experienced –even though it hadn’t been real, it still felt like a memory, albeit a hazy one – but when she got to the part where he was killed, she stumbled a bit over her words.

He squeezed her hand, and she rushed to finish the tale, not wanting to think about his death – or Mithrandir’s, or Pippin's – any longer tonight.

“It is no wonder that Denethor has practically lost his mind,” Prince Imrahil growled. “To use one of the seeing stones – such a thing is the height of arrogance. To think that he could accurately utilize such a tool, interpret its secrets – not to mention the danger… But tell me, you mentioned Faramir earlier but I did not want to interrupt. I take it he is not improved?”

“My lord, I fear if he is not retrieved from his father’s care immediately, he may indeed perish.”

He finally released her hand to sit back, and run it over his hair. “Damnation!”

Rather abruptly, he stood, and she followed suit.

“I must see if there is something I can do. You say Mithrandir is outside the tower, perhaps he and I can convince Denethor to….but no, I believe he is likely beyond convincing. Either way, I will do what I can. I will not lose two nephews in the space of a few months, I refuse!”

He took both her hands in his.

“Calaear…I refuse to die in the manner of your dream. I promise you, we shall see a day that allows us to share a drink in peace, without fearing visions of despair, or orc invasions!”

“You cannot promise such a thing,” she replied softly, sadly. She pulled free a hand to lay it against his face, this time. “My lord.” She knew she, too, said it differently than before, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“Nonetheless, I shall do so, and you must hold me to it.”

She searched his eyes for several long seconds. “Very well. I will.”

Then he grabbed his things, and was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Calaear had great trouble sleeping; normally her training and years as a Ranger allowed her to catch what sleep she could, though she awoke easily at any sign of danger. But tonight it took her nearly an hour to finally doze off, despite her repeated admonishments to herself that she must sleep now, while sleep was available to her. There was no telling when the battle might be joined that would keep her up for days.

Her chaotic thoughts had no care for this, however; she couldn't stop reliving Prince Imrahil's gestures in her mind - the touch of his thumb against her cheek...

Even once she did fall asleep, she was mistaken if she thought she would be allowed to sleep the entire night. It was just after midnight when a soft scratch at her door awoke her. Obviously not an enemy – they would not have made their presence known. But someone who wished to remain discreet...

The scratch came again, and she realized the sound emanated from approximately waist level.

“Pippin!” she whispered loudly, and went to throw open the door.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked indignantly. “I was being very stealthy!”

She chuckled. “Well done, but you need a bit more practice. I take it I’m needed?”

“Gandalf…I mean Mithrandir,” he whispered importantly, “sent me with a special job that only you can do! He said he’s received word there are traps all throughout the forest in the direction the Rohirrim will likely ride, and he wants you to go out with the few Rangers of Ithilien that are left and disarm them, so the Rohirrim can pass through unhindered!”

She frowned. “I…am not sure of the importance of this errand, Pippin, how many traps can there be that they would hinder such a force?”

“He didn’t give me details, but he said they would likely take out many of the horses, which would badly disable their army.”

“Hmm. I suppose that could be possible—although traps laid by orcs could surely be seen from a mile away, even on horseback—

“It wasn’t the orcs, Cal. It was Haradrim.”

“Damnation! I did see some of them in Southern Ithilien, but…”

“Apparently some were spotted near the river, outside the Rammas Wall, and Gandalf is sure that these traps were laid by sort of…Rangers of their own, if you will. Sneaky little gits.”

“Indeed. Very well, I will do as you ask.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Calaear chuckled, and again was struck with a frisson of fervent hope – she would _not_ allow Denethor’s visions to come to pass. She absolutely would not.

“You’re to meet Candúr and Echil near the gates; Gandalf wants you to go at night so as to remain under cover of darkness.”

“Care to help me with all these buckles?” she asked with a smile as she dropped her leather vest over her head.

“I must say, Cal, I’m glad I've only a bit of chain mail and a helmet, and even more glad soldiering is not my full time occupation – I don’t know how all of you get in and out of these contraptions every day!”

***

It was early afternoon, and Calaear and her Ithilien Ranger companions had gotten quite a bit more than they bargained for when they set out in the middle of the night.

“If I’d known I’d be doing something so ridiculous…” Echil panted as he tossed another rock to the side.

“Can the Rohirrim not move stones?” Candúr grumbled. “Our talents are wasted on such activities.”

Calaear chuckled and took a moment to straighten and stretch. “I agree, but here, we are almost through, and at least we can say that we were of great aid to the Horsemen when they are able to take such a direct route to Minas Tirith.”

“Yes, and I suppose these Drúedain have at least done more than their fair share,” Echil allowed, glancing back at the wide path already cleared by their new allies.

As one, the three of them turned to the far side of the cleared path. Hoofbeats could be heard on the soft forest floor.

Galloping hooves, from the direction of the White City.

They watched, dusting off their hands, as the new arrival approached. A Gondorian soldier, and his horse was nearly spent. The three Rangers shared an apprehensive glance. This didn’t look good.

“Thank the gods I’ve found you,” the man called when he reached them, and immediately dismounted. “I’ve been looking for hours – the host of Mordor has finally attacked the City! You must return at once!”

Calaear closed her eyes. She’d known it was coming – all of them had. She’d even seen it, yesterday, in a dream. But it was no easier to hear in reality.

“There were already siege-towers at the walls when I left,” the soldier was panting. “There were six of us, and I’m the only one that got past the enemy—"

“We must alert the Rohirrim that the time has come,” Candúr’s voice echoed with a chill resignation. “Come, soldier – you will find rest for you and your steed at the Horsemen’s camp.”

The man nodded and followed Candúr along the path. Calaear and Echil hurried after.

“After what happened in Osgiliath,” Echil said quietly, eyes on the ground, “I am…eager for the retribution I owe to those hated creatures.” Calaear murmured her acknowledgement. “But…my lord lies near death in the Tower. The Rohirrim are hours away from joining the battle, despite the work we’ve done this morn. Calaear, I know you are in the confidence of Mithrandir, and of Prince Imrahil. Do you think we have any chance?”

Calaear was taken aback. She didn’t know Echil that well, but she would not have guessed he held such doubt in his heart about the future. Not to mention, she didn’t realize her acquaintance with Mithrandir and the Prince had been so noted…

But that was unimportant now. She put a hand on Echil’s shoulder, and turned him to face her.

“I _do_ believe,” she insisted, quietly but with conviction. “Our belief is what makes us stronger than our enemy, and what will allow us to repeal this assault! We _will_ make it in time.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She smiled, a little sadly. _Someone made me a promise…._ “I had a dream about it, you might say.” Now that the onslaught had begun, she could only pray that events unfolded completely differently from the vision she’d been shown.

Though he might have scoffed at this, instead it seemed to convince him. He heaved a sigh, and continued walking. “I have to admit, Calaear, it’s true what they say about you. I saw it in Osgiliath and I see it now.”

She blinked. “W-what? What do they say?”

“I’ve met a few Rangers of the North in my time, and you’re quite the most inspiring of all of them. I’m glad to have met you.”

“Oh! Well, I…I’m glad to hear you say so!”

He chuckled at her discomfiture.

“But I must warn you,” she added with a secret smile, “if my…hope for the future does come to pass, you will soon meet a Ranger of the North who is more inspiring than me by a hundred fold.” They would see Aragorn before much longer – she could feel it in her bones. One way or another, he would come to their aid.

They arrived at the Rohirrim camp before Echil could ask her what she meant.

“I hear it is time for us to ride!” Éomer shouted to them, his commanding voice garnering the attention of all within earshot. “And so we shall – men, let us put to good use the path our allies have carved for us!”

A cheer rose among the Riders of Rohan, and Calaear could not help but smile slightly at their enthusiasm. Like Echil, they too had a debt of blood to pay to the forces of Mordor, and they were eager for the opportunity.

As she readied her horse, Calaear couldn’t help but think back to the visions she’d seen in the Palantir.

Mithrandir struck down by Gothmog. Pippin snatched by a fell beast and carried off. Prince Imrahil…

She refused to think of it any more. Dwelling on dismal memories, real or not, could draw your focus away from the present, and that was the last thing she needed.

She must concentrate on the upcoming battle – she would need her wits about her if she was to survive it; they all would.

***

Smoke clouded her vision, invaded her nostrils.

It was only once the Rohirrim had cut a swath through the horde of orcs and trolls in their path that Calaear got a look at the massive battering ram that had finally managed to breach the gates of the city.

It hulked outside the gate, still now, silent, its work done…work that she had already seen in the nightmare Denethor had shown her.

Her stomach seized painfully, and she could barely catch her breath as she looked upon the first evidence that the future she’d seen, and not the one she hoped for, might actually come to pass.

But suddenly through the polluted air of the battlefield, she realized that the Witch King was not inside the City, as Denethor had foreseen – he was wading forth to confront the Rohirric forces.

And Mithrandir! He was not dead – she could see his bright presence leading soldiers of Gondor out of the gate!

She felt as if the very spirit of hope flowed into her, through her. All was not lost!

She let out a cry of mixed rage and exultation as she loosed another arrow directly into the eye of an Uruk-Hai. Up to now she’d been in the thick of the Rohirrim, sniping enemies from a full quiver, but she knew she’d soon run out of arrows, and she’d have to dismount to find more on the battlefield.

While she was quite good with her blades, she was much better with her bow. Her skills were more suited to picking off enemies from a distance, her accuracy practically unmatched. When she fought hand to hand her adrenaline got the best of her, and she often got sloppy, as evidenced by all her scars. She was no elf, and she didn’t have their impossible agility and speed.

She’d also thought she was rather decent at shooting from horseback, but the Rohirrim put her to shame; she’d seen some of them in conflicts before but witnessing the mass of them just roll through their enemies like a roiling mounted machine was something terrible and inspiring to behold.

But she couldn’t get distracted; she wanted to make it to the gates – make sure Pippin was alright, and possibly find—

A horrifying sound echoed across the battlefield; Calaear nearly had to cover her ears, but she soon found the source.

The armor of the Witch King seemed to shudder in the breeze. And then fell to the ground, empty. It was leagues across the battlefield, but Calaear saw every detail with wide eyes. Could almost hear the clang of the creature’s hated helmet as it hit the dirt.

Who had felled him? Could it be Théoden?

She wished to know, but her desire to make it to the Gondorian forces overrode her curiosity. She spurred her horse forward, eschewing her bow for the moment in favor of her short swords as she came closer to physical contact with the enemy.

But even as she rode, skirting masses of heavy fighting and harrying her foes as she went, she noticed that the lull in the enemy’s fervor that had ensued after the Witch King’s destruction now began to wane.

More quickly than she would have thought possible, the enemy was regrouping.

Calaear’s horse suddenly lunged forward, and she was nearly flung from the saddle.

An orc had cut her mount practically out from underneath her. She spared a breath of a thanks for the faithful service of the steed as she gracefully rolled away, swords at the ready.

The back of her neck prickled, and she lashed out behind her, trusting her ears to direct her blow, and she wasn’t disappointed when her blade sank into hated orc flesh.

Two more followed the first, but there were no end to them – more began to turn away from the line of Gondorian forces they were engaged with, to try to put an end to the foe behind instead.

Nine of them lay at her feet, but four more were closing in. She could only take on so many at once…

The telltale shake of the ground – she nearly rolled her eyes with exasperation. A troll, too? She didn’t have time for this…

She dodged out of the way just as a spiked mace bigger than her head whished by, and took out two of the orcs who’d been eyeing her. Well, that was handy at least.

If only there were more space, she could dart around behind the hulking creature – it was slow and would never catch her – but the battlefield was crawling with orcs, Haradrim, Easterlings, not to mention her allies.

She sent two more orcs to the ground while trying desperately to dodge the frenzied swings of the gigantic troll, but it was forcing her into the line of enemy forces; soon she would be swallowed. There would be little she could do once twenty orcs turned and found her smashed against them.

Suddenly thundering hooves drowned out the other noises of battle; the rider stood tall in the stirrups of a huge, stout white horse, and mowed down the foes in his path, their attention directed elsewhere. As he drew even with the troll, his sword darted out, and more easily than slicing through butter it partially separated the troll’s head from its thick body.

Calaear rolled to the left as the massive creature flopped forward, crushing several orcs in the process, and spraying the rest with black ichor.

The rider had wheeled around, and when he reached her again he held a hand down, and she took it gratefully and pulled herself up behind him on his horse. She had no wish to leave the battle, but what she did want was to get out of this press of orcs, and find out if Pippin was alright.

She allowed herself one full second to close her eyes and rejoice in the knowledge that Imrahil was warm, solid, and unhurt, before she had a sword in each hand once more, and continued hacking at any enemies that approached them too closely as Imrahil headed back toward the gates.

“You’d better not be carrying me to safety, my lord,” she admonished as they got closer – she merely wanted to get out of the thick of it so she could go back to using her bow.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, and she smiled fully, knowing he couldn’t see it.

But suddenly he slowed, his eyes trained on the South Gate. Her gaze followed his, and her smile disappeared.

Through the gaps in the decimated Rammas Echor, a host of black masts could be seen.

The Corsairs had arrived to reinforce the forces of Mordor.

She could almost sense the collective sense of despair that settled over the field. The death of the Witch King had done much to bolster the foes of Sauron. But now…they were not prepared to face yet another fresh onslaught from the east.

Abruptly Imrahil put spurs to his horse, and Calaear immediately saw who he was hurrying to meet.

“Mithrandir! How many forces can we spare to—”

“Do not send your troops out needlessly, Swan Prince,” Mithrandir answered with a grim smile.

Calaear and Imrahil both stared at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I think you’ll find the situation is not as dire as it appears.” He nodded toward the Rammas wall, and they both looked back towards it…

To see the enemy forces turning…away from the Riders of Rohan, away from the soldiers of Gondor, and the Swan Knights. They turned to defend their rear from whoever was coming up from the river.

Hope bloomed in Calaear’s chest once again. “I knew it!” she shouted, and quickly jumped down from Imrahil’s mount. She spied a full quiver of orc arrows on the ground; she despised using the things, but there they were, and she had none. And she would use every last orc-arrow on this field if it meant thinning the horde that lay between her and these new allies.

It took her a moment to adjust to the thick shafts and heavy arrow points, but soon she was piercing orc hides with their own hated ammunition, and she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the irony. There were, in fact, an almost unlimited supply of dead orcs, and while archers weren’t a large percentage of their fighters, there were enough that Calaear would not run out of arrows for quite some time.

But before she got too carried away, she turned back to find Imrahil with a look of dawning hope on his face as he peered over at the wall; Calaear glanced in that direction again, to see a banner unfurling, black as night, with a design of white.

The White Tree of Gondor – and the Seven Stars of Elendil!

This put to rest any lingering doubts. Rohan had, in fact, arrived, as had Aragorn, her Chieftain and her King. She could now be safe in the knowledge that not only had all of Denethor’s dark imaginings – brought on, of course, by the suggestive powers of the Dark Lord – not come to pass, but the free peoples would soon win this battle.


	8. Chapter 8

Calaear’s rejuvenated optimism at the sight of Aragorn’s banner was shared by most.

That is, until it was revealed that Théoden King and Éowyn – who wasn’t even supposed to be present – had been struck down. Éomer was beside himself when he found her, and he and a small number of his men had routed a huge number of remaining foes, his rage at his sister’s death catalyzing him to destroy every orc in sight.

To add to that, Merry had apparently been riding with Éowyn, and though it was his blow that helped her to kill the Witch King – a feat worthy of the greatest of warriors – he’d been gravely injured in the doing.

Calaear panted as she helped carry another wounded soul back inside the gates of the city.

Orcs still prowled the fields, despite the fact that the battle was over, uncaring that they were supposed to retreat.

She was so angry, so unbelievably frustrated that she had to be filled with this hot sense of defeat when she, and all of them, should be able to rejoice.

As she went back out, she saw a warg rider sneaking amongst the bodies, savaging the dead. She could barely see through her tears, but she couldn’t wipe them; her hands were covered in blood. Regardless, she pulled out her bow again – her swords had been lost at some point during the battle, and she had little hope of ever seeing them again. But this was better anyway.

Walking directly toward the creature, squinting, she emptied her quiver into it, along with its rider. She’d only seven arrows left – ones she’d borrowed, with silent thanks, from a fallen Rohirrim – and when she was down to one she walked up to the orc, pinned by the slain body of its mount, and put a boot to its head. Weakly it tried to reach for its weapons, and with a trembling chin, she put her last arrow directly through its eye.

Her tears ran again. Although she’d so far kept from openly sobbing, she knew her face was marked with the tracks of the sorrow she could not contain. She had seen many battles, it was true, but none as massive, or as deadly, as this one.

She did not weep for Théoden as much as the others; she knew he had been proud to lead his people in battle again, and could not have wished for a better death than in casting down one of the fell-beasts of Mordor, a deed that would be sung about in the ages to come.

But Éowyn…that beautiful lady, who had shown such courage, such determination. She had once expressed to Calaear a hint of envy of her freedom as a Ranger, the ability to travel and do great deeds, to protect those closest to her with her swords and her bow, rather than remaining at home to tend the hearth. Calaear hadn’t really known what to say; she, too, would have strained at the ‘gilded cage’ that Éowyn lamented.

But now she wished she’d found some better way to convince her…would it have helped anything? Could her words, weeks ago, have prevented Éowyn from partaking in the battle? And even if it would have, would she have been content with her lot? Calaear couldn’t be sure that she, herself, would prefer being relegated to the homestead, to being killed in the process of a heroic deed.

It didn’t make her loss any less painful.

And Merry…

Calaear walked numbly back to the city, her bow held loosely in her hand.

But as she approached the gates once more, watching with a heavy heart the procession that bore Éowyn’s body into the city, she noted Prince Imrahil speaking urgently with the bearers of her litter. He removed his gauntlets, stuffed them under his arm, and gently lifted one slight, pale hand from the still body.

She sped up to a jog, noting with great interest that those carrying the shield maiden hurried their steps, but at the same time became even more careful with their burden.

Imrahil looked after them with worried eyes, until Calaear caught up to him. He turned back, and spared a moment to lay a hand on her shoulder. Every time she came near him since the battle ended, he didn’t seem able to refrain from giving her a tender glance, as fleeting as it may be. As if he felt relieved all over again each time he saw she was uninjured.

“I believe the lady Éowyn yet lives,” he murmured, and her eyes lit with hope. “There is certainly life in her yet, though how long it will last I know not. I instructed them to take her to one of the guest houses until I can send for Aragorn.”

“I pray he may be able to save her – his healing skill is well known among my kin, as of course you know.”

He nodded. “I am sure he will consider this of the utmost importance.” He searched her eyes. “I know you worry for your halfling friend, but I have every confidence our King can aid him as well.”

Calaear took a deep breath. He was right – she should not despair, not yet. She managed a smile, and began to return to helping with the wounded. But as Imrahil turned to leave, she stopped him.

“My lord—” she dodged behind him, putting a hand through a large gash in his cloak, and then pulled the fabric aside.

The back of his armor was deformed by a large dent, split down the middle, although just barely – likely an orc axe. She also caught a glimpse of blood on the cloth underneath.

“My lord, you are injured!”

He waved her away, turning around and holding an arm out to keep her from going around him again. “It is nothing, merely a scratch.”

“You cannot tell me the Prince of Dol Amroth wears armor that is so affected by a mere scratch!”

He sighed. “Very well, Ranger,” he said pointedly, glancing around, and then lowered his voice. “If I promise to see to it when I have time, will you leave me in peace for now?” His words were sharp, but his tone, and his gaze, were soft, and Calaear relented.

“I will, but you must let me tend to it later.” He nodded, and they once again went their separate ways.

Calaear’s heart was lighter knowing that Éowyn may yet survive, and that her Chieftain would soon be on the way to aid Merry as well.

## ***

Hours later, Calaear followed Imrahil into the tent that had been allocated to him in Aragorn’s pavilion, just outside the gates of the city. She was amazed with the rapidity with which the tents had been erected. She herself had just come from the Old Guest House, where she’d gathered her things and given up her room. The wounded needed a roof over their head more than she.

“My lord, I must insist – you cannot think it is wise to leave your armor in such a state, if nothing else.”

Imrahil sighed heavily. “I suppose you are right.” He reached with his right arm, underneath his left, to begin unfastening the many buckles and ties that kept his armor in place.

When he did so, he winced, although he quickly turned away from Calaear. As if she could miss it.

“You are wounded worse than you say,” she quietly accused him.

“I am no such thing – I am merely no longer a teenager,” he countered with a rueful chuckle.

“I…have something for that. If you would allow me to help you.”

He turned back toward her and regarded her for a moment. “Very well.”

She tossed down her pack, and began nimbly unbuckling, her fingers flying over Imrahil’s armor; she wasn’t practiced, but she had done this a few times, and had a good idea where everything was.

Finally the Prince was divested of all his heavy armor, and he stretched, this time not bothering to mask his grimace. “Lothiriel is always telling me I’m old and I need to stretch before exerting myself.”

Calaear blinked, and dragged her eyes away; she’d never seen him without his armor, and if she didn’t take care she’d sit there and moon over him like a lovesick girl. “You are not even half the age that many Dúnedain live to see, my lord, I hardly think you are old.” She risked a glance back at his face.

His eyes held hers for several seconds. “Do you not? I am pleased to hear it.”

She looked away first. “I am no…spring chicken myself,” she joked weakly.

“You forget I am well aware that you too are of Dúnedain blood, my dear. On both sides.”

She cleared her throat and set about gathering all the armor pieces into a manageable pile. “Yes, well.”

He had turned to the wash stand, and now that his back was to her she could see his shirt was stained with blood in several places.

“I knew you were hiding injuries,” she scolded. “Here, I will take this to the smith, you get cleaned up and when I return I will patch you up.”

“Are you sure you can—”

Her curse cut him off as she tried to lift the full set of armor, and she was infuriated when he laughed at her. “I was going to say, it’s quite heavy.”

“I’m well aware of the weight, but—gods how can you wear this day in and day out!”

“It’s not that noticeable when I’m in it.”

“Well yes, I understand that, but…” This time she got her arms underneath the pile – his breastplate at the bottom acting as a basket for the other pieces – and lifted with her legs.

“Calaear, you needn’t take it, let one of my soldiers do it—”

“Well now you’ve goaded me into it, my lord, don’t think I shall back down.” Her breathing was already labored, but she was determined.

He shook his head. “That will teach me.”

She grunted in reply, and pushed through the flaps of the tent.

Then she remembered that the smith was on the opposite side of the camp from the sleeping tents. Reasonable, but currently not a location she was very pleased about.

Luckily at just that moment one of the soldiers approached with a small cart already half full of armor and weapons to be repaired; the battle had taken its toll on everyone.

She handed Prince Imrahil’s gear off to him gratefully, and he looked suitably impressed that she’d carried it at all. But once she’d deposited it in the cart, she realized she couldn’t just hand the Prince’s armor to a soldier and then saunter off.

“Ah – Ranger Calaear,” called a voice that she didn’t quite recognize. She turned to find one of Imrahil’s Swan Knights – the one who’d fetched her from the stables.

“…Eradan, yes?” She gave him a bow, and he returned it, but now he was smiling, in contrast to his brusque, almost rude manner the last time she’d met him.

“I can accompany my lord’s armor to the smith and see it gets first priority, if you wish,” he said good naturedly.

“I…yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.”

He approached her a little closer, out of earshot of the other soldier, and lowered his voice. “I owed you one for yesterday,” he explained. “I appreciate you not letting the Prince lay into me any further, although I deserved it. Your arm is healed, I take it?”

She masked her surprise with a small smile. “Indeed, I am in perfect shape now, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. I will bring his armor back personally when it has been repaired.”

She nodded her thanks, and stood there for a moment as the two soldiers walked off towards the other end of camp.

She should probably find some place to bunk; there were likely no empty tents here – this pavilion housed Aragorn and all his advisers not to mention Éomer and his retinue as well. There was no place for a random Ranger.

But she had to speak to Aragorn at some point – she thought she’d seen Corunir somewhere, but where was her uncle, Halbarad, and Golodir? She was sure they should be here; but everything was at sixes and sevens, the pavilion had only been set up an hour or two before; it might have to wait until the morning. Aragorn would not have time for her questions right now.

She ducked back into Imrahil’s tent to grab her bag so she could find some place to stow it – and eventually, hopefully, herself, at least for a few hours.

She let out an undignified squeak – a noise highly unworthy of a Ranger – as Imrahil stood from his bath to grab the drying cloth hanging over the screen that separated that corner of the room.

It wasn’t like she could see anything…anything other than his solid chest, dripping wet, and his hair hanging damp to his broad shoulders—

She swallowed. She’d seen men bathing in the river before, it wasn’t a big deal, or hadn’t been for many years…not that she’d seen such a fine _specimen_ of a man in many years either…

Dammit, she was staring, and he chuckled when he caught her. She cleared her throat.

“I apologize, my lord, I just came to…to get my things—”

“Don’t you need them, if you’re going to assist an old man with his wounds?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I will bring my healing salves back with me, but I ought to find a place to bathe, myself, not to mention sleep…eventually.”

He looked around his tent – the tent of a Prince, of course, with an actual cot instead of a bedroll (although in other circumstances even that would have been an insult), and more space than was allotted to most.

“You could sleep here, if you wish.”

Her eyes widened, and he hurried to correct her misconception. “I don’t mean _with_ me, I would hardly proposition you in such a way,” he assured her, looking uncomfortable. “I just mean there is plenty of space, and I feel certain you will be called upon to attend the meeting with Aragorn later—”

“Oh I hardly think—”

“You are one of few people here whose acquaintance with him runs back years, Calaear, not to mention your contribution to every effort here – and at every stop along the way – is well documented and known by most.”

“Is it?”

“If you did not wish it so perhaps you should have prevailed upon your small friend Peregrin to remain silent on the subject.”

She snorted. “I should have known. And if you think I could force him to do anything you’re sadly mistaken about the stubbornness of hobbits.”

“I had guessed it.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he turned away, and grabbed a clean shirt.

“You may as well leave that,” she told him, rifling through her bag. “Since you’re already done I should just get started now.”

She sat on the edge of his cot and set out several jars and vials, their lids meticulously labeled. She was nearly out of the celebrant salve, but she didn’t need that at the moment. She had him wet a cloth at the washbasin and bring it to her.

A large welt ran up from his hip to his ribcage, and she shook her head. He really got much too far into the thick of fighting for a Prince. “You should not so willingly plunge into the fray, my lord,” she mumbled as she picked up one of the jars and opened it, beckoning him to stand in front of her. “You have a responsibility to your subjects to remain…well…alive…”

She focused resolutely on the injury – ignoring the voice in her head that told her it wasn’t really severe enough to be treated – and dabbed the sweet-smelling mixture along its length. But he flinched when she got to the top, and she realized he might have a cracked rib.

“I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do if you’ve broken bones,” she murmured, brows drawn together as she gently prodded his rib once more.

He grabbed her wrist.

“It’s not a broken rib, Calaear,” he ground out, and her eyes widened as she raised them to meet his.

“It _tickles_.”

After one second of pure shock, she cackled with merriment, and barely avoided wiping her eyes with fingers coated in healing balm.

“Surely your levity is a bit exaggerated,” he grumbled.

“I’m so sorry, my lord, I lost my composure for a moment,” she gasped, trying to get her breath back. “But the grand Prince Imrahil, Commander of the Swan Knights, Lord of Dol Amroth…vanquished by a poke to the ribs!”

He pursed his lips, but a slight dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth, and this effectively stifled her laughter as much as anything could have. Suddenly and forcefully the…intimate nature of their position struck her.

He stood before her where she sat on the bed, bare-chested…he’d just released her hand…she could easily let it wander further than his injuries necessitated…he really was impressive, despite his jokes about his age.

A nearly-forgotten heat bloomed inside her, and she swallowed, trying desperately to deny how badly she wanted to touch him.

But no, that would be foolish; yes he had shown interest in her, and though she knew, now, without a doubt, that she had feelings for him, it could lead to nothing. He was the Prince of Dol Amroth, and though perhaps they might share some fleeting glances and verbal banter in the midst of war, afterwards they would go back to their lives and that would be the end of it.

She quickly turned back to the jars on the crate next to the cot.

“If you could sit down I can reach all the ones on your back,” she nearly whispered, and hated how hoarse her voice sounded. But thankfully he didn’t mention it, merely did as she asked. Again her breathing began to quicken; he smelled of soap, and clean linens…but now he couldn’t see her, and she’d be sure to keep her reaction from his notice.

He only had one moderate injury on his lower back, where she’d seen the prominent dent in his armor. His skin was split, and beginning to bruise. She gently wiped at the wound, which was still bleeding sluggishly, and then dabbed it with the same pungent paste she’d used on her arm.

He sucked in a breath. “Sorry, should have warned you. It’ll fade in a minute, then I can apply the soothing ointment.”

He didn’t reply, but linked his fingers and stretched his arms forward with a little groan. “I may not be old,” he all but whispered, “but I’m getting too old for this.”

Hearing the strange, sad note in his voice, she badly wanted to wrap her arms around him – she was not normally a very demonstrative person, and the urge confused her. She felt the need to comfort him, but she had to be careful. She could so easily get carried away.

But perhaps there was something she could do, at least, to soothe him a bit, something innocent. Mostly.

When she got done applying salve to his minor injuries, she put all the jars but one back in her pack, and went to wash her hands.

“What’s that one for? And please tell me it doesn’t smell like that other one…”

“Don’t be a child,” she scolded mildly. “And lay down. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything inappropriate to you.” Worried was the last thing he looked, but she ignored his expression and made a motion for him to roll over onto his stomach.

She took a generous amount of the cream from the jar – which smelled minty and floral rather than foul, lucky for him – and coated her hands with it, as he turned over and rested his forehead on his arms.

Then she knelt over him and put her hands to his shoulders.

“Mmf,” he mumbled as she dug the heel of her hand into his muscles. “You’re right, I would classify this as extremely appropriate.”

She smiled. It was something her mother had often done for the Rangers at home, a skill she’d learned from her when she got older. It wasn’t exactly a necessity, but soothing sore muscles could mean a second’s difference in reaction time later.

Plus it felt magnificent.

She’d been working on his back for several minutes when a voice sounded at the tent flap.

Eradan immediately backed out, but Calaear was careful to put to rest any suspicions that she was doing something illicit. “Come back, Eradan,” she said with a smile in her voice, “I am finished mending his old bones.”

She went to wash her hands as Eradan gave Imrahil a report, and then informed both of them they were needed at the main tent in half an hour’s time.

“My lord; Ranger,” he said, bowing, and then left.

Imrahil had risen and was grabbing the shirt she’d talked him out of putting on earlier. “Eradan seems quite taken with you, I would have thought the opposite after—gods!”

She whirled around, afraid something she’d done had aggravated his injuries. He was pulling his shirt over his head, but he slowly swung his arms forward, back, then down, and turned his head this way and that with a look of wonder on his face.

“That is bloody amazing!” he exclaimed, staring at her. “I feel ten years younger!” He let out a crack of laughter, and she couldn’t help but smile in response. His merriment was unexpected, and seemed uncharacteristic for him, although she couldn’t claim to know him that well and certainly not in times of anything other than war. But it was rather precious nonetheless.

“I’m glad it helped, my lord.”

All the air suddenly rushed from her lungs as she found herself crushed in his embrace and spun around.

“I’m beginning to think I should keep you around at all times, my dear,” he murmured, and then kissed her forehead.

It was just a peck, nothing more, but the place where his lips touched her skin burned like an ember in her mind; she couldn’t breathe, even when he loosened his hold, not to mention his _second_ use of that endearment… And the intense regard of his steel grey eyes wasn’t helping…

“Prince Imrahil, do you have a moment?”

They stepped apart as one, and she continued drying her hands with feigned nonchalance as Imrahil called out permission to enter.

Calaear was surprised to see Aragorn step through the tent flap. He nodded briefly to Imrahil, but then turned to Calaear.

“I was looking for you, and one of Imrahil’s Swan Knights told me I might find you here.”

“Looking for _me_? Whatever for – I’m sure you have more important things to—”

“It’s about Halbarad.”

Her hands fell loose to her sides, the towel falling to the floor. She could tell immediately from his face that his news was of the sort she didn’t want to hear.

“No. Do not— _please_ —” she broke off, unable to speak.

Aragorn held out a hand, and she gripped his forearm. He put his other hand over hers, and she struggled to keep her tears at bay. But it was not fair to him – he must be hurting almost as badly as her. Halbarad had been a friend to him since before she was even born…

“I was hoping we had merely become separated in the battle, but…it is confirmed.” His voice shook slightly, and when he met her eyes she could see the responsibility he felt; all of them knew that their friends might die in battle, but when you were the leader of the Grey Company, and the future king…those deaths would weigh twice as heavy on your soul.

“We _must_ win this, Aragorn,” she whispered vehemently. “We must finish it, for Halbarad. We cannot lose now, we cannot let his sacrifice be for nothing!”

“I fully intend to.” He released her hand, and sighed. “But first we are going to mourn the fallen. Will you come out to the field, before this council is brought together, to remember those we’ve lost?” He glanced behind her at Prince Imrahil, and inclined his head slightly.

Calaear nodded numbly, and then Aragorn was gone.

She stood, staring at nothing, until Imrahil turned her around to face him.

She lifted eyes bright with tears. “Halbarad was my uncle…my only family…”

Imrahil’s expression of sympathy was more than she could bear, and her own face crumpled; for the first time in years she cried on someone’s shoulder. Now she had no family, none at all – her mother was gone, her father she’d never met, and now her uncle was lost as well. She was alone.

Halbarad had fought so hard to achieve victory over Sauron. But Calaear never expected for his life to just…disappear. She’d lost many friends to this conflict, but her uncle…

“He may as well have been my father,” she whispered as Imrahil held her. “He taught me…everything. If I am _anything_ as a Ranger it’s because of him! I just—I just can’t believe he—"

“I know, I know,” Imrahil murmured, stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry…”

Finally she took a deep breath, and stepped back. “We should go – I know you have your own people to mention at the pyre, I should not act as if grief is mine alone this day.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue. He finished dressing while she washed her face, and the two of them went out to the huge pyre that was set in the center of the field.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’ll be there in ten minutes – and thank you again for allowing me the use of your—”

“Will you be silent,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “It’s not as if it inconveniences me.”

She didn’t have it in her to counter him; the ceremony at the pyre had drained all her emotional strength.

He ducked out of the tent as she undressed, finally able to bathe after everything that had happened today. The water was cold, but that mattered little; perhaps it would help to jolt her back into reality.

Not only Halbarad, but she’d found out at the pyre that Golodir was also killed, and Duilin and Derufin…this had upset her almost as much as Halbarad’s death, because of the echo from her vision…

But at least Corunir still lived, as did Daervunn, and Gimli and Legolas had accompanied Aragorn and were safe as well – all was not lost. And though Merry had been gravely injured, Aragorn had already been to see him, and he was improving by the hour, as was Éowyn. Even Faramir, whose own father had forsaken him, was said to have the bloom of life upon his cheek once more.

After this was accomplished, Aragorn had left the city, and refused to re-enter it for the time being. Calaear did not pretend to understand his reasoning, but judged it was sound.

So Merry and Pippin were at least safe, and she could rejoice in that. Many others yet lived, including the Swan Prince, and she had to focus on this lest she drown in her despair over the losses.

As she finished washing – her hair finally free of blood, both orc and otherwise – a harsh realization struck her.

She had no clean clothes.

From the corner of her eye she saw a pile of Imrahil’s folded shirts, and for some unknown reason a thrill raced up her spine. Why in the gods’ name would she care about his shirts sitting there? She really needed to get her emotions under control, she was being irrational.

The only thing she could do was wear her fancy clothes – they were clean, and while rather uncomfortable, they would do for the time being.

## ***

Two hours later, she was growing tired of hearing the arguments of literally every lord in attendance. Even Imrahil, though he seemed resigned to what was mostly decided by this point, felt the need to put forth objections.

What was the point of objections? It was the only route that made any sense. The only way to end this war was for the Ring to be destroyed, and all of them knew it. They might fool themselves that they could fight Sauron’s forces despite the Ring, but if he got his proverbial hands on it…literally the entire world was doomed.

Finally Mithrandir got the commitment of Éomer, and of course Gimli and Legolas were on board with Aragorn’s plan. He turned to Imrahil, the last of the highest ranking advisers in the tent.

"Aragorn is my king, whether he claims it or no. His wish is a command to me." Calaear felt pride well within her at these words. "But the city must not be undefended behind us."

Mithrandir agreed, but suggested that the details could be ironed out on the morrow. Dawn was but a few short hours away, and some of those present hadn’t slept in two or three days.

She was contemplating her undecided sleeping arrangements as she left the tent, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“My lady?”

She turned to find Brod approaching.

To both of their surprise, she embraced him briefly. “It is good to see you still live, friend,” she told him, and though he was a bit taken aback by her greeting, he smiled warmly.

“And the same to you, Ranger – I confess I hoped you were safe in a bed in the city but then I saw you out at the pyre…” his face darkened for a moment, but he straightened. She knew that look, had already worn it several times today. Couldn’t dwell on those you’ve lost, have to keep moving or you’ll break down. “In any case, I hope you’re able to sleep tonight, after all your troubles!”

“As a matter of fact I was about to seek a bed, any bed,” she joked.

“Are you not staying in the city, then?”

She shook her head. “Too many wounded need the beds in the inns.”

“Very generous of a hero to give up their lodgings,” he said, repressing a smile, and she scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. But it does look like I’ll be spreading my bedroll by the fire, if you will—”

At that very moment as if on cue, a fat drop of rain struck her in the face. Then another.

“Damnation.”

“I would say I’d give you my place, but I’m relatively certain you don’t want to shack up with a bunch of foul-smelling soldiers,” he said ruefully.

His name was called from some distance, and he turned and waved a hand.

“I also would say I’d find you something, but you’ve got more pull than I do around here—I trust you’ll be alright?”

She nodded. “Don’t worry for me, I’ll make do.”

He hurried off, and she sighed heavily and continued trudging back to Imrahil’s tent. If nothing else she had to get her things…

She glanced back through the slightly parted flaps of Aragorn’s tent, and caught a glimpse of Imrahil in deep council with Aragorn and the wizard. If they would be up a while, perhaps she could just take a nap in Imrahil’s tent…it wasn’t like anyone was watching where she went…

She didn’t even have a bedroll; she’d sent hers to get laundered at the guest house, and naturally wasn’t about to ask around after it when she left – there were more important things going on.

She shook her head; she’d dealt with worse, much worse; once she’d had to sleep in a tree. So this was nothing. She drug her pack to a corner of the tent, laid down and rested her head on it – took a moment to shove the jars and vials within to the side so as not to jab her in the neck – and within a minute she was asleep.

## ***

Her eyes flew open, and before she knew what she was doing, her hand was in her boot, withdrawing her knife, and her fingers closed around the wrist of—

“Please refrain from stabbing me, my dear, I’d hate to have survived the battle just to get done in by the Ranger hiding in my tent,” Imrahil whispered with great amusement as he knelt next to her.

She quickly sheathed the dagger and released his arm. “I wasn’t _hiding_!” She raised herself on an elbow, and grimaced – the fancy hauberk she was wearing always cut mercilessly into her sides, and the effect was not lessened while she slept.  She should have at least taken that part off before she laid down…

“Since you already expressed your disapproval of sleeping here, I assume you were unable to find other arrangements?”

She shook her head. “I was going to sleep outside but then the rain…” she could still hear it, and Imrahil’s form was covered in droplets. She blinked sleepily at him. A couple of tendrils of silver hair had escaped from the leather tie he used to hold it back, and they were slightly wavy from the damp. How strangely precious…

Without thinking she reached up and tucked a strand behind his ear.

Swiftly, before she could pull away, he grabbed her hand and held it to his cheek. After a moment he closed his eyes and turned to press a long kiss to her palm.

She sucked in a breath, her insides a tumult of emotions; opened her mouth to try and form words but unable to do so.

But then he stood, and slowly let her hand slide away from his. “Wait here a moment,” he mumbled, and then he slipped back out into the rain.

What was he doing? And what…had he just done? She stared at the hand he’d kissed. As before she felt the imprint of his lips yet burned against her skin…

She was disoriented by this rush of emotions.

She’d been infatuated when she was quite young, of course – there had been a couple boys in her teenage years that had caused her at most a few days of sorrow upon parting…

She’d had a few relationships here and there, but for the past ten years as trouble had been growing in the east, there’d been little time for such things.

 _Was_ she just infatuated, and too out of practice to understand her feelings? Was she enamored of his…poise, his rank, his power? His prowess in battle?

It seemed unlikely. If that was what she gravitated towards, why not fall for Aragorn? But he held no allure for her at all, though he was a great man, and just as Imrahil did she considered him her King.

And what about Éomer, or Legolas? There were many other high-ranking, skilled men with whom she’d come in contact, and yet for whom she’d felt nothing. Not even a frisson of attraction.

So…this must be different. But why in all the ironies of life must she develop feelings for someone like him?

Realization of the irony of her situation hit her like a sack of stones.

She was just like her mother.

## ***

Prince Imrahil returned a short time later to find Calaear finally divested of her “royal getup”, staring pensively at the amulet she always wore beneath her clothes.

She looked up absently to see he carried something large beneath his arm – and that he was dripping wet.

She jumped up. “My lord! You’re soaked, what—”

He tossed his bundle to her, and on reflex she caught it.

It was a bedroll.

“Did you…”

“I did, and if you scold me for it I’ll put you out into the rain yourself,” he replied with a half-smile.

She looked down. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

He rolled his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the cot and started pulling his boots off. “I should have known you’d find some way to reprimand me.”

She kept her eyes on the bedroll in her hands. “As you say, my lord.”

“Calaear, will you please stop trying me, and get some sleep?”

“Of course, my l—”

“ _One_ more time, Ranger, I swear—”

“I will endeavor not to test your patience any more,” she murmured as she unrolled the blankets, and then looked up at him, and caught his eye, “ _my lord._ ”

He narrowed his eyes. “You should be glad sleep is precious this night, but don’t think I won’t visit retribution on you later.”

She pressed her lips together for a second, a twinkle in her eye. She didn’t know why this inordinate amount of sass was suddenly pouring forth, but the look on his face when he pretended to rebuke her did something to her heart. “I trust you will.”

And she laid down on the blankets and immediately went back to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The next day was a busy one, and not just for the expected reasons.

Steward Denethor took his own life, and would have taken Faramir’s if others hadn’t intervened.

The city didn’t know whether to mourn or heave a collective sigh of relief, but Calaear had no love nor loyalty to the dead Steward – not to mention he’d inflicted that horrid vision on her without her permission – and she proceeded to go about her business.

Which was to have lunch with Pippin. And Merry. Faramir had been moved to a quiet area of Houses of Healing, near Éowyn. While not yet awake, both of them were improving by the hour.

Whispers were rampant of how Aragorn had healed them, and Calaear certainly did nothing to counter them. As far as she was concerned, anything to endear her King to these people was a rumor well spoken.

There was much to be done in the upcoming days, and soon most of the lords moved to lodgings in the Master’s Tier or the Citadel. The lower tiers were rather in chaos, some of the buildings having burned, others destroyed by the enemy’s catapults and other siege weapons; what was still standing was full of injured and refugees.

When Imrahil told her he’d arranged for her to have a room in the Southern Great Guest house, she thought her reply might cause him to actually shout at her in the middle of the green.

“My _lord_!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart dramatically. “Shall I learn how to curtsey?”

His nostrils flared, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “Sounds like a good way to poke yourself with your swords,” he said finally, and she had to put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile this time.

He turned to leave, but she put a hand on his arm, and drew closer so none need hear her words but him.

“Such fancy lodgings are not necessary to a Ranger, however…I do very much appreciate your trouble on my behalf…my Prince.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment she was afraid he’d make an inappropriate gesture in the middle of the Citadel grounds. But he just searched her eyes.

“It was less for the luxury, and more the proximity,” he explained quietly.

She didn’t quite know what to say to this, it having put her brain along with her stomach into an absolute jumble, but she smiled – uncharacteristically shyly – and then let him be on his way.

Their interactions made her feel…genuinely happy inside, but every time she was left wondering why she continued encouraging them. The immediate effect was obvious, but what would happen when this war was over? When the Black Gate had been assaulted, the Ring destroyed – as she fully believed it would be?

He would go back to Dol Amroth. And she would…what? She wouldn’t stay in Minas Tirith, that was sure – it was, or had been, a beautiful city, and would be again, but it was much too large, too bustling for her liking. Would she go back to the North Downs?

Impossible. There was nothing for her there any longer; all the people she’d grown up with were dispersed, or gone.

As she meandered to the guest house Imrahil had indicated, her pack much lighter now that she’d thrown away one and a half sets of clothes, she asked herself for the first time…if she could go anywhere, where would she go?

The answer was immediate, but she pushed it away and forced herself to think further. It was stupid to so quickly settle on Dol Amroth in her mind; it was obviously only because of her…her fixation with its lord.

But was it? She hadn’t been lying when she told him, in one of their first conversations, that she’d adored it. It was a decent sized city, but not enormous. And the docks, the gulls, the waves…the library!

She did love it, but…now it was out of the question.

The realization settled heavy in the pit of her stomach.

Regardless of how she liked it, there was no going back to it, not when she was…

Not when she was in love with its Prince.

She shuffled behind the woman who showed her to her room – not, thankfully, one of the best ones, but still much fancier than what she was used to. She tossed her things in a corner and sat down heavily on the bed.

She’d been wrong – she hadn’t made the same mistake her mother made, had she?

For one, physically no mistake had as yet been made.

For another…it was different. Yes, she was a Ranger of the North, and he was a Lord of Gondor. A Prince even; when her mother had fallen for Faltharan, he hadn’t even been the Lord of Lebennin, just next in line.

But her mother had loved him…and been loved in return. According to Imrahil, Faltharan had at least the intention of doing something about the love of his life that he’d left in the North. Had sailed to his death with that intention in mind. And her mother had been left alone because her chosen was young and rash, not because he didn’t share her feelings.

On the other hand, Calaear could go to settle in Dol Amroth, see the object of her misguided affections on a regular basis, and not be seen in return. The thought of his eyes passing over her without notice made her want to be sick.

But if he did not feel anything for her, then why act the way he did?

That didn’t matter, she reminded herself. What he felt wasn’t the main factor – he was a Prince, and he couldn’t just toss aside centuries of rules and tradition and pick whomever he chose. Not that he’d given her any indication he would go so far, but even if he wanted to, it was impossible.

She rubbed her hands over her face. She was tired of thinking of it – perhaps, in these dire times, it was best to take what joy she could grasp, and worry about the future later. It was always possible there might not _be_ a future, for one or both of them, or that coming events would change the course of their relationship irrevocably.

She took a deep breath.

That was the best course of action. Seek happiness where and when you may; it wasn’t as if it hurt either of them to have this bit of sweetness in an otherwise bitter world.

Just as she made this decision, a knock sounded on the door. A young woman stood on the other side, with a basket of what looked like sewing things hooked over her arm.

“I’m Suolda, and if it please you, ma’am, I’m to take your measurements.”

“You’re—what?”

“You weren’t expecting me? I was told you needed new clothes. That all your stuff got destroyed in the battle and all that.”

Calaear sighed with exasperation. Imrahil really did need to stop coddling her so…

“Is that halfling up to his tricks again?” the serving girl, her tone beginning to sound annoyed. “I swear, first it was the cheese, and now he’s sending me on a wild goose chase—”

“Halfling, you say? Was it Peregrin Took who told you to come see me?”

The girl nodded.

“OH, in that case – I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, and yes I do need new clothes, please do your worst,” Calaear said brightly. The girl squinted suspiciously but came further into the room, shut the door, and set down her basket.

Bless Pippin for being so thoughtful…

## ***

A couple hours later she exited the guest house feeling like a new woman. In addition to Pippin, she meant to thank Imrahil again – the baths in this guest house were worth any jokes she might endure from her acquaintance among the soldiers or other Rangers. The water had been blissfully hot, and with almost no women present in the guest house she had an entire room and bath to herself. She’d bathed several times during the past couple weeks but now she scrubbed, washed her hair twice, used a brush to get the orc blood out from under her nails. She wasn’t much for primping, but being this clean was something of a luxury when you lived your life mostly on the road.

And then she’d been able to put on brand new, crisply clean clothes as well – another luxury. Suolda had found some pants and shirts that were near enough to her in size that it was only a matter of a few minutes to alter some to fit; as far as Calaear was concerned, the girl was a wizard with the needle. The shirt was impractical for daily use, but it _was_ rather pretty, she had to admit. Dark blue, some sort of patterned cotton, with sheer, flowing sleeves. Thankfully the pants were fairly straightforward, and of course she wore her usual boots; if for some reason she’d been asked to wear a skirt or dress, just…around, she would have been quite perturbed.

She was meeting Pippin at the Feast Hall – Merry had wished to attend as well, but the Healers forbade him; he was not quite ready to leave, they said, after his near-deadly injury a few days ago. When Calaear arrived, she found not only the hobbit, but Éomer, as well as Legolas and Gimli, whom she’d seen but had no opportunity to speak to since their arrival with Aragorn.

And a certain Prince, standing nearby, speaking with a member of the Gondorian council. He, too, was wearing other than his full armor, as she was used to seeing him in – a tabard of blue with silver embroidery, the swan ship symbol of his house on the chest. It fit him almost too well, and she had to force herself to direct her eyes toward those at the table.

She shared a nod with Legolas, and Gimli raised his pint in her direction as well.

She successfully avoided letting her gaze linger on Prince Imrahil, but he seemed to be having difficulty doing the same with her, to the point that his companion turned around to see what he was staring at. She cleared her throat and addressed Pippin as a distraction.

“I hear you’ve been bandying my name about, halfling,” she said sternly.

His dimple appeared. “Well, I was just trying to be helpful, but I’d no idea they’d find you something so pretty! Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in casual clothes, Cal!”

“ _This_ is casual?” she asked incredulously, looking down at the fine fabric.

“Well, I’d say it is for the people of Minas Tirith, perhaps not for a Ranger.” He grinned.

“Well either way, I do like it, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness, friend.”

He gave her a little bow, but when she sat down next to him he leaned in so the others wouldn’t hear. “Care to er…help me win a bet?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t suppose you appreciated it enough that you’d give me a wee kiss? On the cheek?”

She stared. “What sort of bet is this?”

“I’m under strict orders not to speak of it.”

“Didn’t you speak of it just now? Isn’t that cheating?”

He cleared his throat. “N-not exactly—”

“Oh very well,” she relented, and leaned forward to give him a little peck. “Thank you, Master Peregrin, for your aid in my time of dire need.”

His face turned pink, but he shouted with triumph. “You all saw it!” he said to the others around the table, and Calaear chuckled at his glee. “Merry owes me a pint!”

Calaear shook her head. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know exactly what her participation in their bet entailed. She glanced up again to find Prince Imrahil’s companion had left; but when she caught his eye he looked away…awkwardly?

“My lord?” she called as he began to leave. “Will you not dine with us?”

He glanced at the others at the table, who were engaging in a rather vociferous discussion about who’d killed more orcs on the Pelennor. Éomer’s participation seemed a little half-hearted, but Calaear was glad he was able to smile a bit, at least.

She turned back to Imrahil; he seemed unsure, and it struck her as very sweet. This man who commanded armies, who was only one rank removed from King, was uncertain whether he’d be welcome at their table. She knew he’d only met Legolas and Gimli recently – she hadn’t spent that much time with them herself – and was not close with Éomer, but he’d come to know Pippin in his time here. She wondered how often he was able to have a light hearted meal with friends; perhaps with his Swan Knights, but…

She got up, and took his hand. “I insist,” she said softly, pulling him towards the table.

He seemed to regain his aplomb, and gave a little bow to the rest of the table, who raised their collective glasses to him.

“Join us, Prince, we are now on to discussing the larger creatures of the enemy,” Gimli said stridently. “By my count I am at four trolls with an assist on a Mumak!”

“I’ve only three trolls under my belt,” Legolas replied with a smile, “but two Mumakil.”

Gimli gasped. “You didn’t tell me that! When did you bag the second one!”

The discussion soon devolved into chaos, with Pippin insisting that height ratio should be taken into account, which Gimli of course seconded. Imrahil, sitting down next to her at the foot of the table, observed this with amusement.

Calaear threw up her hands when called upon for her ‘score’, having not taken out anything larger than several wargs during the most recent battle.

She glanced at Imrahil. “But that’s not to say I didn’t engage with any trolls; thankfully a literal Prince on a white horse was nearby to save me,” she admitted with a chuckle.

“She softened him up for me,” the Prince replied with a smile. “Besides, I am confident her count of orcs and wargs more than makes up for a lack of trolls.”

“I am inclined to believe you,” Legolas chimed in unexpectedly. “She has a skill with the bow that rivals the elves of Eryn Galen.”

Calaear stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. She opened her mouth but couldn’t quite form the proper words.

Imrahil nodded. “I have never seen them in action, Master Elf, but if they are more talented than she I hope someday I may.”

Calaear was glad she hadn’t been drinking anything or she might have choked on it. Éomer, seeing that she was quite flustered, changed the subject with a little smirk in her direction. “Well, I think we may all agree that the highest award goes to my sister, considering she slayed the Witch King,” he said with satisfaction.

Glasses were raised all around to that, and more ale was called for.

The March on the Black Gate must happen in a few days’ time, and preparations were yet to be completed. But for a few hours, they shared stories and ale, and let the impending battle slide away from their minds.


	11. Chapter 11

For several days, now clad in new but less delicate clothes, as well as her repaired leather armor, Calaear was tasked with scouting all the way north to Crithost, while others kept an eye out east toward Osgiliath, and past the South Gate. The last thing they needed was some unexpected attack while they were trying to plan their own offense.

But as she was routinely checking the farmsteads outside of Crithost, she came across something she was not expecting.

A thin, barely visible trail of smoke from a chimney of one of the houses.

The light of dawn was just barely illuminating the land, and Calaear thought she might not have seen it were the rays not cast at just a certain angle.

She left her horse some ways away, hidden in the trees, and crept toward the house, dodging from cover to cover. Her bow was of course useless in such close quarters, so she drew one of her swords – new ones that she’d been given as replacements for those she’d lost – as she approached the door. She could hear movement inside, rustling, and kept her weapon at the ready.

But when she threw open the door, she found something very different than what she’d expected.

A Haradrim woman, against the door into the other room of the house, her sword held in front of her.

Defensively, not aggressively. Interesting.

A fireplace to the right smoldered as if it had just been doused.

Suddenly Calaear realized that there could have been many women in the Haradrim army, and none of them would have known. The woman’s clothes looked like any Haradrim soldier: dark pants and shirt beneath a loose hauberk of deep red. But without a helmet or any head covering, her face and long, ink-black hair were clearly visible.

Calaear’s eyes narrowed. This woman may or may not pose much of a threat, but what was she hiding in that room? A band of Haradrim spies? It seemed unlikely they’d post one soldier as their defense, woman or otherwise, but perhaps it was meant to throw her off guard?

They eyed one another for several seconds, until something in the woman’s eyes – despair much more evident than hatred – made Calaear take a chance. She lowered her sword, and held her other hand up.

“What are you doing here?”

The woman blinked, and let her weapon fall as well. “I…was injured,” she said with a heavily rolled R, and Calaear knew immediately it was a lie.

“You’re hiding someone. Who is it.”

The woman’s sword came back up. “I will kill you if you touch him,” she whispered fiercely. “I swear it!”

Calaear sheathed her sword. She hoped to the gods she wasn’t being foolish, taken in by the enemy’s clever ploy, but she hadn’t got this far without a good sixth sense, as it were.

The other woman’s brows drew together, and she hesitantly lowered her sword again, confusion clear in her face.

“I can help,” Calaear told her, approaching slowly. “But if there are more of you in there, you’d best tell me now.”

After a long pause, the woman shook her head. “It is just us. But why? Why would you help us? Why not try to kill us both?”

“Because you’re in a vulnerable position,” Calaear explained. “You didn’t attack me, you’re merely defending yourself. I’m not about to murder an injured man and his guardian without provocation.”

“You don’t think us invading your city was enough provocation?”

Calaear sighed. “Do you want my help or would you prefer I kill you and leave your companion to die?”

The dark woman’s nostrils flared. “You could try!”

They faced off for a moment, but finally the Haradrim, without turning fully away from Calaear, opened the door and moved into the other room. Calaear followed at a safe distance.

As suspected it was a small bedroom, with a fireplace that mirrored the one in the front of the house.

“I was boiling water to clean his wound properly,” the woman whispered.

At least she had some idea what she was doing…

Glancing at the man on the bed, Calaear bit her lip. After the injury to her arm, she’d restocked her supply of salves and poultices, including the small vials of them that she kept in the pouch hanging from her belt. But she didn’t know if she had enough to fix this.

His dark skin was lightened by an unnatural pallor – he’d lost a lot of blood. His shirt had been ripped away, and his stomach was raked with three long, ugly gashes.

But as she got closer Calaear realized that miraculously the injury didn’t seem to have dismantled any of his internal organs; otherwise his guts would be spilling from the wound. There might be hope for him yet.

But the woman was right; why help them, what was the point? If she did heal him, what would she do then? Take him back to the city? Let them go?

She shook her head. She’d figure that out later; she couldn’t just let the man bleed out in a farmhouse.

“What’s your name,” she asked the woman as she opened the pouch at her waist.

“Idaira,” she whispered.

“I’m Calaear, I’m a Ranger. Who is this? You know him, I take it?”

She nodded. “Esto. My promised.”

Calaear sighed. The pair was young, perhaps early twenties at most. To think they hadn’t even been able to get married before going off to war…then again, she knew very little of Haradrim culture; perhaps going to battle together was what one did…

“When did this happen? And how did the two of you manage to get here?”

“He was injured by one of those stupid wargs,” Idaira mumbled. “Both of us and all our kin hate the orcs, but we were ordered to ally with them, and the irony that he would be killed by them instead of…”

She took a deep breath, and Calaear looked up at her. “We may yet be able to save him, Idaira. Time will tell.” She bent back over her task, carefully dabbing the pungent paste along his wounds.

“We were almost off that accursed field when it happened. We were hiding in the trees, but I carried him here, where I thought it was a little safer…I guess I was wrong.”

“You _carried_ him?” Calaear could tell the man was fairly slight, having almost an elf-build, but for the woman to carry him from the trees north of the farmhouse was quite a feat.

“I have always been the stronger one,” Idaira explained, almost fondly. “He is the smarter, he would have known…just what to do…” her voice shook, and she trailed off.

Calaear’s heart ached. She didn’t know why – she should immediately hate these people for all they’d done to her friends and kin.

But in the end, both of them were just people, and perhaps the reasons they would give for attacking them might surprise her. Or perhaps they had no reasons; perhaps they just did as they were told. It seemed that might be the case, given what she’d said about orcs.

She put away the first little jar, now practically empty, and took out another.

“Did you…fight in the battle?” Idaira asked her quietly. Calaear’s hand paused for a moment. Then continued in its ministrations.

“Yes, I did, and I lost many friends. And…family.”

“I…I am sorry.”

Calaear finished what she was doing, then put away the jar and wiped her hands. She turned to Idaira, unable to contain her curiosity.

“This is a much longer conversation than what we can have at the moment, but perhaps you can explain to me…why your people would ally with Sauron? You say you hate orcs, and I believe you, but orcs are but an extension of his evil…”

Idaira shook her head sadly. “I honestly don’t know, Ranger. Our peoples have been at war since time began, and when you are young in Harad you do not question your orders. But…some of us have had doubts, I will not lie. The fact is, everything Sauron touches seems wither, and die. We may live in the land of eternal sun, but there are living things there, and the sun gives life even in these green lands. The Dark Lord…”

She sighed. “I do not wish to betray my people. But even if we were still hostile towards Gondor, I would have it be at our own behest, and not _his_. I would bring glory to my tribe for the sake of glory, not for fealty to _him_ ,” she concluded with disgust.

Calaear found it very difficult to bear this confession, and had to struggle not to let her emotions overwhelm her expression.

Granted, Sauron’s enemies were merely fighting to keep light in the world, but little did they know that the humans among the Dark Lord’s allies were just doing what they thought they must as well. And some of them going against better natures and better judgment, in order to follow orders or bring glory to their people, as Idaira had said.

Calaear had no problem killing orcs, but thinking of all the people, on both sides, who had their own lives, their own motivations, and who were not all uniformly evil…it made it difficult to think of going to battle once more.

She gave Idaira some athelas for a tea for Esto to drink, but cautioned her to ensure the fire was only lit for a few minutes at a time, at night, to boil the water, and then she must quickly snuff it. She didn’t want to risk anyone else seeing anything and coming to investigate.

“I will come back tomorrow morning, and in the meantime I will try to…figure out a solution to this mess.”

Idaira looked apprehensive. “If you wish to take us prisoner, there is nothing I can do; I doubt I can move him again. If you must do so, I beg of you to leave Esto out of this. He was never meant to be a soldier—I will do as I must, but I will see him safe!”

Calaear sighed and shook her head. “I have no intention of coming back with a cadre of soldiers to take you in; not now when you pose no threat. I would hope my actions have proven more trustworthy than that.”

Idaira looked down. “If our situations were reversed, and I had found you, a sworn enemy, in a hut outside my village…”

“Well at least I’m not an orc,” Calaear pointed out wryly. “So perhaps you would have stopped to speak to me as well.”

Idaira did not smile, but she did chuckle, and nodded. “Possibly. Very well, I will do as you say. And Ranger…thank you.”

## ***

Calaear returned as she’d promised, and Esto improved, but for three days she turned over the situation in her mind, unable to come to a reasonable solution.

If she turned them in once Esto was healed enough to be moved, they would not get very good treatment in Minas Tirith’s dungeons, and she had to admit she didn’t relish the thought of the ill will that would be directed at _her_ , as well, once everyone knew of her role in the circumstances. She would accept it, if that turned out to be the best course of action, but it would be better if the entire scenario could be kept secret.

If she let them go…they could go back to their clan and report on the comings and goings of the White City.

But was that even true? She certainly had betrayed nothing to them, other than perhaps imparting some knowledge of healing herbs to be found in Gondor. There was nothing they could see from the farmhouse that couldn’t be seen ten times better from across the river, southward. And they’d come into contact with no one else.

So what secrets could they even betray?

As the days passed Calaear became more and more convinced this was the right decision, and time and again she toyed with the idea of speaking to Prince Imrahil about it, or indeed anyone.

But she discarded the possibility; he was a good man, but he was also a commander of armies, a leader of the Gondorian forces, and would soon have a large part in the assault on the Black Gate. She didn’t think he could put his nature aside for two young lovers caught in the crossfire of this endless conflict.

The same could be said for anyone else; they might think she’d made a terrible call, and rush out to the house to put an end to the ‘threat’. And if that was what came of her reluctant acquaintance with the Haradrim girl, Calaear wasn’t sure she could forgive herself.

She didn’t know why she’d developed such a sense of responsibility for Idaira and her injured companion, but the strange circumstances had brought the enemy couple under her wing, so to speak, and she intended to see that, unless they showed renewed hostility towards her, they were protected.

## ***

On her fourth visit, Esto was awake when she arrived.

His reaction to her was far less emotional than she’d feared. Of course Idaira had prepared him, but Calaear expected, at the least, to see wariness in his eyes when she entered the room.

Instead, he was merely curious. He asked her any number of questions – many of which she refused to answer merely on principal, although she doubted he was gathering information to be used against her and her allies.

He seemed genuinely interested. He wanted to know about various cultures, languages, regions, and Calaear satisfied him as best she could. She tried not to notice when Idaira came forth to smooth the hair from Esto’s brow, sharing little jokes with him in low voices. It was more than her heart could take.

As she finished checking his wound, which she pronounced much improved, he said something that nearly broke it into.

“I have always wished to travel to these places, you see, learn about them first hand,” he murmured, his gaze unfocused. “But of course a Haradrim would not be welcome in your lands.”

Calaear sighed, but she didn’t doubt this was an astute observation. “Perhaps, someday, that will change.”

He smiled sadly at her, but didn’t argue.

She decided then and there to put her plan into action.

## ***

They had to wait two days for the escape to become reality. But Calaear felt the heaviness of the air, and she knew a storm was coming. On the second morning, a thick fog blanketed the Pelennor, and as Calaear rode out to the farmhouse, she knew the time had come to get Idaira and Esto away.

They were ready – Idaira, too, had noted the fog. Esto was prepared to walk, but Calaear had made arrangements.

She’d managed to commandeer a second horse. She didn’t feel good about lying to the stable hand – she’d told him she spotted what she thought were the bodies of Gondorian soldiers on the bank of the river, and intended to bring them back to Minas Tirith. But there was nothing to be done – she didn’t know if Esto could make it all the way to the Anduin, across, and then back south without aid.

The Anduin was swift, but Calaear had scouted a place where they could cross, if the conditions were right. Otherwise they’d have to try it further downstream, where eyes were on the river; they’d never make it.

It took them two hours just to make it to the river, even with Esto on horseback. Calaear halted them at every noise, every possibility of discovery. But in the end, no one witnessed their passing.

The fifteen minutes it took for them the cross the Anduin were the longest of her life. More so because after ten she could no longer see them, and had to wait in utter silence, aside from the distant calls of birds as the world awakened, and the rushing of the river.

Finally she hard their agreed-upon call, a bird-like whistle, when they reached the other side, and she nearly collapsed to the bank in relief. The horse was gone forever, but she felt confident she could give some excuse for that.

Now that her charges were dispatched back to their people, it was time to notify Prince Imrahil of her activities. If she were lucky, she’d get a monumental scold for her troubles. If she weren’t…well, she didn’t want to think what would happen then.

When she returned, he was in a meeting with his knights, and of course she didn’t mean to distract him form important business. She waited until later in the day, when he took his evening meal in the feast hall.

He saw her, and waved her over, as expected. Her guilt growing with each step she took towards him, she finally seated herself in a chair nearby and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Well, Ranger,” he said for the benefit of anyone nearby. “What news have you?”

She screwed up her courage, and in a low voice related to him exactly where she’d been spending her time for the past few days.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE RE-READ THIS CHAPTER IF YOU'VE ALREADY READ IT - I LEFT OUT AN IMPORTANT SECTION THE FIRST TIME! <3

Calaear knew he would be angry, but this was not the disgruntled face that was precious to her, this was…different.

“Why are you telling me now? As you have just pointed out, I have no authority over you.” His voice was low, but he might as well have been shouting, and she nearly flinched.

“That is not what I meant, I—”

“That is exactly what you meant – that I have no right to give you my opinions on anything you choose to do, is it not?”

When she tried to speak again he held up a hand, and looked around.

“Come, we will continue this elsewhere.”

Normally his peremptory attitude would have earned a scoffing reply, but this time she merely swallowed, and followed him out of the dining hall.

Across the green, up the steps to the tower. When they were near his room, she tried again.

“My lord, you did not see them, I was not—”

“There could have been an entire group of them hiding in that house! Spies, assassins! And you just walked in, alone!” His voice rose when he shut the door to his chambers and he didn’t have to fear anyone overhearing his towering scold.

“Do you not think I can take care of myself? Do you think I’ve gone over two decades as a Ranger without the ability to judge a situation?” She crossed her arms and glared at him. She’d felt almost apologetic a moment ago but if he was going to insult her abilities—

“Even Rangers make mistakes!”

“So I should have come back to the city and fetched you that first day, what, so you could protect me? Killed them out of hand, more like!”

“That is unfair, Calaear!”

“Would you not have? Would it have taken any more than a flash of dark skin for you to run her through?”

He sat on the end of the bed, looked away. “Perhaps not,” he muttered, his voice abruptly losing its volume.

“What would you have had me do? I assessed the circumstances, and I made a decision. I still stand by it, angry Prince or no.” Now that he was no longer yelling at her, she felt an unexpected tenderness creep over her, and she had a hard time maintaining her stern demeanor.

He laughed without humor. “Believe me, I hardly assume my reaction to have the slightest bearing on any decision you make.” 

Was he blind?

Finally she pushed aside her inhibitions, her natural caution. She would just have to explain it to him.

She approached and knelt before him, and took his hand in hers. He stared at her, bemused, his anger now replaced with something else.

“Of course what you think matters to me, Imrahil.” His eyes widened slightly – she’d never just called him his name before. “I would not argue with you at all if that were not the case.”

“I…I see,” he murmured, clearly not in fact seeing anything.

“Why are you _really_ angry with me? Is it…is it because I helped the enemy? If so, I am sorry you think I acted wrongly; I still think I did right to help them, but perhaps I should have…spoken to—”

“That is not why,” he whispered, and suddenly both his hands were on her face. “I admire your strength, and your cleverness, and I know very well you do not need me,” he said, and her stomach tied in a thousand knots. “I am not afraid of much, Calaear, but every time you go charging into dangerous situations, I just…”

“You are mistaken, my lord,” she whispered, her hands sliding up his arms, and then realized how little sense she was making. Well, that was his fault. “Of course I need you.”

A little sigh fell from his lips, and his shoulders seemed to relax.

Then he kissed her.

His lips were warm, and tasted of the mead he’d been drinking when she interrupted him. All her senses focused on the point where their mouths touched; with a little shiver she felt and heard him exhale softly as he drew away, and her entire body surged upward of its own volition, eager to taste him again.

The noise he made when she leaned back in, linking her arms tight around his neck, was full of such hope, such joy, and such eagerness that it brought tears to her eyes; she couldn’t fathom how but it echoed exactly what she felt. This beauty, this happiness was a part of what she fought for, what she wanted to protect.

But soon the gentle caress of his kiss gave way to something deeper; his tongue teased her lips, and she opened her mouth with a little whimper that made his arms tighten around her. He stood and pulled her with him; the heat he brought forth within her just grew hotter until she thought she might be consumed.

But all too soon he loosened his arms, and took a step back, leaving her gasping. He leaned his forehead against hers, his own breathing none too steady.

“We…we must not…” he breathed, brushing her hair back from her face.

He was probably right – but then again, their biggest battle yet would take place on the morrow. Did she want to risk the possibility that they might never have this chance again?

She pulled back and searched his eyes. “Or perhaps…we should hold onto this happiness while we can, my Prince,” she whispered.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned back down. Through her armor she felt his hand moving over her back, but then he pressed his lips just below her ear, and her attention shifted.

Until suddenly she felt her armor loosen, and realized he’d gotten two buckles undone without her even noticing…

Luckily her own armor was much less cumbersome than his, with less fasteners, and five minutes later it was on the floor. She knew a moment of apprehension when he made to remove her shirt, too; that flash of self-consciousness when she remembered how different she was from a true lady…

But all her fears were put to rest when he bent and gently kissed the scar on her collarbone.

“You are…unspeakably beautiful,” he whispered against her neck. “My Light…”

## ***

Calaear woke twice in the night when staff slipped reports under Imrahil’s door; she couldn’t just turn off her Ranger training, but at least he’d been right that no one would likely disturb them.

Each time, she turned to look at him, his beloved face illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the high window.

The second time, she realized he too was awake when his hand slid over her hip; he pulled her over him, and she threaded her fingers through his black and silver hair as she kissed his cheek, his brow.

They would be tired in the morning, but she didn’t care – she’d gone into battle with less sleep than this. She was determined not to think about tomorrow, anyway.

If only they could stay like this forever, skin against skin, arms tight around one another, the silence punctuated only by gentle sighs and sweet whispers…

But nothing could halt the flow of time, and the morning hour arrived despite her most fervent wishes. The window became a square of soft pink light, and Calaear squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wanting to deny it.

But Imrahil too was awake, and though he pulled her close and kissed her hair, he soon released her and began getting dressed.

She took a deep breath – she was an adult, and this battle was important; the most important one of their lives. This was how they would end the war, and both of them had to focus.

At least they were able to share the intimate but bittersweet task of helping each other don their respective armor, Calaear’s of course taking much less time. But it was nice to have someone else to reach the most awkward fasteners, and Imrahil’s was impossible to put on alone.

Half an hour later, he gave her one last, lingering kiss, and slipped out the door, leaving her to finish braiding her hair and leave separately a few minutes later.

Not that it mattered who saw them, said a hateful voice in the back of her mind; they’d all be dead soon anyway.

No – she refused to think that way. They would succeed today, and they would make it back alive. Not all of them perhaps, but she would do whatever she could to ensure that she and Imrahil both returned from this battle.

## ***

They were nearly surrounded, only their flank had no enemies trained upon it. Tears rose to Calaear’s eyes, but she blinked them back. It was possible that they would die here; likely, even. But it didn’t matter – their job was an important one. They had to keep Sauron’s eyes on them, and it looked like they’d succeeded.

She didn’t want to miss out on all the moments she might have had with Imrahil – of course she wanted to live, desperately. But if she didn’t make it – if any of them didn’t make it, at least they knew they’d been key to freeing the world of Sauron’s menace. They could all be proud of that.

But as their foes closed in, Calaear noticed something odd out of the corner of her eye. She turned to face the Haradrim host to the south; only a portion of them were advancing. Over a third held back, what looked like their commander riding before them on a sleek black steed, its red barding trailing behind as he trotted up and down the line. More of her allies were glancing in that direction while still maintaining their shield lines…

But then, to all of their absolute shock, that portion of Haradrim turned…

And marched southward along the river. Away from the battle.

They were not fleeing, nor retreating – there was no reason to. But where were they going? They couldn’t cross over to the city from that direction…

The Harad forces that remained seemed scattered, confused by their allies’ seeming defection. This was not planned, at least not that they knew. Calaear squinted, wishing she was near to Legolas to ask for his take on the situation; he could likely see the expressions on the Haradrim’s faces.

But there was no time to worry about it now – the enemy was upon them, and for the next hours all had to concentrate on keeping the shield walls in place and surviving against wave after wave of orcs. The small force of remaining Haradrim was easily routed, and the Easterlings also soon retreated.

Until the Nazgul made an appearance, which seemed to revitalize their fervor.

When Calaear heard their hated cry grate upon her ears, the sound seeming to bring death itself into the hearts of men, she was afraid they were done for. Their forces were far superior in skill to those of the enemy, but they could not stave off these huge fell-beasts with arrows alone. Just one had taken the life of Théoden-King, what chance did they have against _eight_?

Though Calaear’s optimism was draining fast, she fought on, picking off archers one after another.

Then another sound rang out over the battlefield. This one a sound of glorious majesty and righteous anger.

The Great Eagles! She’d no idea they could expect their aid – and what timely aid it was!

The graceful, regal birds did battle with the disgusting creatures of the Dark Lord above their heads, and the free peoples fought with renewed enthusiasm.

She looked for Imrahil on the field, as she did every so often, needing to reassure herself he was still safe; he was there, not far from her. He’d been dismounted, but seemed well - hewing any orcs who got past the shield walls, killing most with but one blow. But as she watched an enormous orc, covered in actual armor that had probably been stolen from their own dead, easily swept aside several Gondorian soldiers, and her Prince stepped forward to repel him.

From the corner of her eye, through a gap in the fighting, she caught a glimpse of Pippin across the field. She’d hoped fervently that something would prevent him joining the battle, but it wasn’t fair to insist he remain behind just because of his size. He had every right to protect his people, just as the rest of them did. But as the gap closed and she lost sight of him, she sent up an earnest prayer that he would survive this; there was nothing she could do now to protect him.

Abruptly there was a change in the air, a strange buzzing, as if a thousand insects sped back toward the Black Gate—

The Nazgul screamed, and immediately turned and flew, as one, directly toward Mount Doom.

The Dark Lord had seen Frodo. He’d seen the ring.

It was up to the Eagles, now, to save Frodo – Sauron must not have him! But there was nothing they could do, there on the ground, but fight on.

She returned her gaze from the sky to the dismal milieu in front of her – two more trolls had joined the fray, and Imrahil was in close combat with the orc captain. She felt he could handle himself with such a foe, but she watched with horror as one of the trolls, a huge mace swinging from his thick hand, took notice of the Prince and headed in his direction.

She too headed that way, and started planting arrows in the troll’s face.

Little did it appreciate that, but arrows weren’t going to kill it, merely annoy it…but if she could annoy it enough that it turned away, perhaps—

A glance to the side showed that Imrahil was facing away from the Troll; the orc captain was massive, and though the Prince’s swordsmanship was much better, he occasionally staggered from the huge creature’s heavy blows.

Finally the troll felt one too many of her arrows, but it didn’t charge towards her as she expected – something she could have easily outmaneuvered. Instead it took her completely by surprise, and flung its mace at her.

She tried to dodge, but at that moment she was caught fast between two cadres of their own soldiers. The great ball of the spiked mace hit her full in the belly, and sent her flying, until she came up against something solid and slumped to the ground.

Unfortunately it was at just that moment that Imrahil, having gutted the orc captain, turned to take on the Troll. She heard as if through a tunnel his cry of rage and anguish – she tried to speak, but she couldn’t catch a breath – why couldn’t she breathe? Her lungs felt wet—

In a fury Imrahil ran for the troll, who was only now turning back towards him, and stood little chance against its enraged foe. Imrahil cut its legs out from under it, and when it fell he planted his sword squarely in the thick skull.

One second later and he was kneeling before her; she would have sighed with relief to see him best both his opponents so handily, if she could just get enough air for a sigh…

Suddenly, over his shoulder, she saw a great gale race down through Mordor, and within seconds it had passed the gate and poured over them all – a hot wind blowing sand and ash in their faces. With it a horrifying cry rang out in their heads, and she tried to blink the sand away, and – was the gate collapsing?

As the noise faded and the wind died, the air suddenly felt much lighter; a weight that none of them had realized was now lifted. The forces of the enemy felt it too, except for them it was an absence of motivation, of direction. They stumbled, weakened and disorganized.

Imrahil, tears streaming down his cheeks, put a hand to her face. “He’s done it, my Light. Frodo’s done it! We…we’re safe now, Calaear. We’ve won!”

She tried to nod, but she was so tired, and all her insides hurt at once – all she could manage was a little smile.

“Why, why did you have to do that?” he was whispering now, and when he put his forehead to hers his tears wet her face, mingling with the blood that leaked from the corner of her mouth.

She took as deep a breath as she could, though it burned terribly. “Helping you keep…your promise…” she rasped. He choked on a sob, and pulled back to stare into her eyes. “My…L…” she couldn’t quite get the words out…just one more breath…

“Don’t you dare say it,” Imrahil’s tone was angry, but his face…

She sucked in one more lungful of air, wincing, and focused on his eyes. “My love…”

She hated to see such anguish on his face – she knew it was the last time she would see it, and she wished she could look upon him smiling, instead…

But she was too tired to keep her eyes open anymore; she tried to hold in her heart the feeling of his hands on her face, as her eyes fluttered shut. She thought she heard him shout for Aragorn, and she smiled again to think that Sauron was defeated, and both her King and her Prince would make it home.


	13. Chapter 13

After the battle, only a few pockets of human foes continued fighting; the orcs were easily routed as they wandered without direction. The few forces of Haradwaith had already dispersed, and the Easterlings were soon defeated.

Aragorn returned to the city almost immediately. There was much celebration, and rightfully so; though the casualties overall had been heavy, the war was now won, and rebuilding and healing could begin for everyone that remained, without fear of retribution from the Dark Lord.

It was over.

Imrahil carried out his duties like a ghost, but otherwise kept to himself. Even his King was rebuffed when he tried to speak privately to him, and certainly no one else could break through his stoicism.

Then his daughter Lothíriel arrived at Minas Tirith; her brothers would take longer to arrive. Immediately she noticed the Prince’s much changed demeanor.

Finally she got him alone, which took her following him to his room and refusing to be denied entry.

“Father, you _will_ speak to me! I’ve barely conversed with you since I arrived and I haven’t seen you for weeks before that!”

“Of course, child,” he said wearily, gesturing to one of the chairs set round a table, and seating himself. “I apologize. I am glad you made it here safely. I trust everything is well at home?”

“Yes, father, but never mind about that. What has happened to you? I know that you have lost some soldiers, perhaps even friends, in these battles, but—”

“I have lost more than you know, Lothíriel.” The absolute despair with which he said this caused her worry to increase tenfold.

“Father, who—”

“You have not even asked about her,” he whispered. The weight of holding back his grief was beginning to tax him, and he seemed unable to hide it any longer. At least here, in the privacy of his room, only his daughter need see the depth of his anguish. He didn’t like to reveal it even to her – he should be strong for his youngest, he should not lean on her…

“About…” She thought for a moment; if she’d been there longer, someone probably would have enlightened her, but she’d only arrived yesterday. No one had as yet apprised her of the full situation with her father.

The only woman she could think of that she hadn’t seen, that her father would think she might have asked about—

“Do you mean the Ranger? Calaear? Was...was she killed in the battle?” Lothíriel was genuinely upset by this; the Ranger had assisted her in several ways, some of them rather substantial, and had given her the means and the confidence to continue running her city in her father’s absence.

Lothíriel had even, dare she say it, thought her father might take a liking to the Ranger, and hoped he’d be able to meet her when she eventually arrived at Minas Tirith.

Suddenly the full import of his words hit her, and she realized that he had, in fact, met her, and it seemed developing a friendship with her was a pale shadow of what he’d actually done.

“Oh, _father_ ,” she whispered, grabbing his hand and holding it to her cheek. “I didn’t know! I…”

“She was felled by a Troll’s mace that was meant for me,” he mumbled, not able to look at her.

Lothíriel winced. To have the woman he cared about killed was bad enough, but then for him to feel guilt over her death…

“I…I’m sure she died valiantly, she was every bit a hero, I can certainly attest to—”

“She’s not dead. Yet.”

Lothíriel sat back, staring at him. “What do you mean, if she isn’t dead then why are you—”

“She may as well be. She is in the darkest corner of the House of Healing, they have said that there is a miniscule chance she will live, and any sort of visitor, any excitement or noise in her surroundings may destroy what little chance she has. I saw the injury, and I…I honestly doubt she has any chance at all.”

Lothíriel heaved a heavy sigh. “Was Aragorn able to do nothing? King Éomer told me his sister—”

“It was beyond his skill to heal, he told me so when she was first injured. I believe his attempt is the only thing that kept her from dying on the field…”

She took his hands again. “Father, please look at me. For one, Calaear is monumentally strong. If you have seen her in battle, you must know this.” He sighed, but nodded. “And for another, there is always hope! What chance was there that this threat would be ended, by one hobbit? With all the armies of the free world outside the door, a mere halfling was the one who, through every trial, has destroyed the Dark Lord. And I think all of our hope that we would one day succeed, might have helped him in some small way, to finish his task.”

“You sound like her,” he murmured with the ghost of a smile.

“If I do it is because she left her mark on me, because of that strength, and that determination. Please do not give up hope, father.”

“I will try. Thank you, Lothíriel – and perhaps while you are here I should broach another subject—”

She instantly knew exactly where he was going with that line of questioning, and spent ten minutes trying to convince him that she did not have “eyes” for the new King of Rohan.

## ***

That evening Imrahil spoke to Mithrandir, who was happy to bring him up to speed on some things after a week of the Prince’s stoic silence.

“I do not often involve myself in affairs of the heart, Prince Imrahil, however,” he began as they wrapped up their conversation about the Easterling forces that still dotted the landscape. “I wish to impart to you a very well-kept secret.”

The Prince raised an eyebrow.

“While not-quite-king-Aragorn has indeed not set foot inside the city since before the Battle of the Pelennor Fields…a certain Ranger named Strider may or may not have been sneaking into the Houses of Healing every other day to visit one of his kin.”

Imrahil sat down heavily in the chair he’d just vacated. “He…he what? I…I thought there was…no hope of…”

“You should know better than to give up hope, Imrahil,” the wizard said with a smile, unknowingly echoing Lothiriel’s sentiments. “Some…progress has indeed been made.”

“I…I didn’t even try to visit! I thought she was gone, after the second day when they warned me away, I thought—”

“Calm thyself, Prince; she is not awake yet. But if her recovery continues, perhaps she soon will be.”

Imrahil wiped hastily at his eyes as he stood back up, not noticing the twinkle in the wizard’s. “Can I see her?”

“I do not know, but I feel you can reasonably annoy the Healers about it, at the very least.”

Imrahil’s grin was blinding. “You may believe I shall do so with all haste.” He gave Mithrandir a little bow, and disappeared from the room.

## ***

Calaear grasped for the dream as it dissolved before her eyes, drifting away like tendrils of fog. She didn’t want to leave it, she wanted to stay – remain where she wasn’t in pain, where a beautiful golden light shone down on green grass, and birds sang in the trees—

But each time the dream was taken from her – over and over, it seemed, before she was allowed to drift back into it, eventually – she was reminded.

Somehow she understood that in the dream, she would not meet him. Her Lord, her Prince. Her love.

Only if she held onto the pain, if she used it to pull herself away from that perfect scene – only then would she see him. And only then would she be able to witness the fruits of all they had done. It would _not_ be perfection. But it would be life.

She opened her eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

Everything hurt. Literally everything. Her toes, her skin, her eyelashes.

It was quite dim in the room, but as her vision cleared she could see she was ensconced in a plush, narrow bed, in a little room with a window that was covered by a thick curtain.

She took a deep breath, and grimaced at the pain in her lungs. But at least she could breathe, unlike the last time she remembered trying.

The war…it was over, wasn’t it? The Ring had been destroyed, along with the Dark Lord…she remembered that much.

She tried to move, and found that shifting her arm a few inches on the coverlet took a monumental amount of strength; but at least now, she found that her pain was indeed beginning to focus in certain places, rather than just a thick blanket that tortured her every movement, every breath.

Her torso felt as if it had been smashed to bits…which, now that she remembered, it had.

How in the name of all that was good had she survived such a blow? She’d been so sure…that she was done for…

Her gut ached even more profoundly than before as she thought of that moment when her vision darkened, and she was sure she was headed for the halls of waiting. But apparently she, too, had made it home – battered, broken in places, but still alive. Regardless of the pain, she took another breath, of air laden with hope, and relief, and a thousand other emotions that took her some time to get under control.

At least the Healers here had been taking good care of her while she was out – however long it had been; at least a few days, for she could feel her nails were longer than usual. But her lips weren’t chapped, and her eyes were clear; she’d seen people waking up from injuries before, and they normally looked worse than death.

Her body might be impaired, but her hearing was not, and she knew someone was about to enter the room long before they did so. Not that she could have done anything about it; thank goodness she was in the Healers’ den, as it were, and not out on the battlefield somewhere.

To be fair, the woman that came in was nearly silent, but when she turned and saw Calaear’s eyes open, she jumped, startled.

“Ranger,” the woman murmured, coming to bend over the bed, laying the back of her hand against Calaear’s forehead. “We have been so hoping you would awaken! Let me get you some water—”

The woman’s quiet voice was soothing, and Calaear gratefully drank as the Healer held her head up slightly. When she’d had a few swallows, she lay back, and opened her mouth to speak.

A croak was all that issued forth; she tried to clear her throat, but that brought forth such a flare of pain beneath her ribs that she immediately regretted it.

“I am so sorry, I should have warned you not to try to speak – your lungs still need time to heal. Along with everything else,” she muttered to herself. “Do you think you are…up to having a visitor?”

Calaear made a weak writing motion with her hand, and the healer reached into her pocket and pulled out a quill and a small notebook.

Carefully, and very slowly, Calaear wrote out, “ _No hobbits yet, please_.”

The Healer laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth and apologized for raising her voice. Calaear shrugged as best she could in the bed, but the Healer shook her head. “This is…most definitely not a hobbit, my lady.”

Calaear smiled again, and wrote on the paper, “ _Hurry_.” She couldn’t know that she was wearing the exact same expression her mother had, when she spoke of Faltharan. Eyes full of stars.

Within seconds, Imrahil rushed in – Calaear couldn’t decide if it felt like minutes or years since she last saw him. But she drank in the look of him now – he was so beautiful, so regal in his formal attire, his silvering black hair pulled back as always, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, those commanding eyes mapping her face with a depth of emotion she almost couldn’t absorb.

Then he was on the edge of the bed, leaning over her—

“My lord, please mind her injury!” the Healer practically hissed from the open door.

Then she smiled, and shut it.

He quickly pulled back, and satisfied himself with putting a hand to her face, and kissing her brow.

Suddenly she was crying; she hadn’t meant to, but—

She opened her mouth to speak, and then remembered what happened the last time she did that. Oh well – they could do without words for the moment. He lifted her hand to his face and held it there; she was glad, she didn’t think she could have raised it that far herself.

They held each other’s eyes for a long minute before he spoke.

“It’s been ten days,” he whispered. Her eyes widened, and he nodded. “And...it is only…for the past two that I knew…that is, that you…that I had any hope you would come back to me.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she whispered, and he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You were so valiant,” he said, stroking her cheek again, and she leaned into his hand. “I never guessed… well, we can speak of all that later. You should probably rest, I don’t want to tire you.”

She held up one finger for him to wait; she was indeed quite weary, but she wasn’t ready for him to leave yet. She gently pulled her right hand away, and reached for the pen and paper that still lay on the other side of the bed.

“ _Is everyone alright_ ,” she wrote, hoping she wouldn’t have to listen to him recite a list of names, but needing to know nonetheless.

He nodded. “Our King, your friends Gimli and Legolas, Éomer,” he rattled off. “Pippin has a story for you, but I’ll let him tell you himself,” he added with a chuckle.

She laid back with a sigh of relief, and then put quill to parchment again. “ _If_ ,” she wrote, and then paused, sighed, wished she hadn’t begun like that. He looked questioningly at her, and she continued. “ _If you have time, please come back soon?_ ”

When he read it, he laughed and sighed all at once. She worried she was asking too much – now that the war was over he must have a thousand things to do; and had the King been crowned yet? Had she missed it—

“My darling,” he murmured, and her heart clenched painfully, but that felt much better than the physical pain in her chest she’d felt earlier. “Yes, of course I have time for you. I will check on you soon.”

She smiled, her eyes glittering.

When he left, the Healer came back in to help her drink a bit more water, and to put her writing things on the table, as she was now too weak to lift them again.

“He’s come every hour, for the past two days, my lady,” the Healer whispered conspiratorially.

Even though she was beginning to fall back to sleep, Calaear’s eyes widened, and she blinked. “ _What_?” she mouthed.

The Healer nodded. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but seeing the two of you together…I think you should know.” She smiled, and then left.

Calaear fell asleep with a smile on her lips.


	15. Chapter 15

It was three days before the Healers allowed Calaear to leave the bed, briefly, although long before that they pronounced her their most prickly patient. Once she regained use of her voice, she used it to insist that she was able to do more than she in fact could – even when it pained her.

They found no sympathy with Lord Imrahil, who was most likely to express an inordinate amount of amusement at the recitation of their trials.

She wouldn’t have said as much to anyone else, but once she’d seen the wounds she’d sustained, she could at least admit to herself that perhaps she should use a little patience with her recovery. A few days after she awoke, the Healers removed her bandages – which had swathed her from hip to collarbone – and she was hard put to hold back the emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Though they were more healed than they’d a right to be – thanks to she knew not what magic – the angry red indentations that punctuated her torso were a grim reminder of the severity of her injuries. She was glad the Healers left her alone for a bit afterwards, for she shed a few bitter tears; she had many scars already, a few more shouldn’t upset her this much, but they were so severe... And never before had she incurred an injury that by all rights should have killed her. She didn’t know how she was going to deal with this reminder every time she looked at herself in a mirror. When she thought of a certain other someone seeing her now battered and practically misshapen body, she felt hot sobs rising up in her chest, and resolutely focused on something else. There was time to worry about that later.

Around this time the hobbit visit for which she’d initially been unprepared occurred, and Calaear responded with the appropriate – and genuine – level of astonishment when informed that Pippin had killed a troll, by himself, and nearly perished. She was prohibited from hugging for the time being, but she requested a kiss on the cheek, in return for the bet that she’d helped him win a few weeks before.

Merry, now perfectly hale and whole again, was outraged.

“You can’t just _tell_ her about the bet, Pippin! That’s not how it works!”

“Well you never stated specifically that I couldn’t, and I—”

“Yes but that’s a given! Besides, didn’t she get angry with you?”

“Well, I didn’t tell her about _all_ of it, and now you’ve—”

“I wonder if you might enlighten me as to the subject of your bet,” Calaear interjected with great interest, and was met with two guilty stares.

“Umm, that is to say, well it was nothing important really, just a wee thing that we discussed while I was stuck in…in here, actually—” Merry began.

“Yes you wouldn’t want to know anyway, boring stuff,” Pippin agreed with a nod.

Calaear merely raised an eyebrow.

Pippin withered under her pointed stare. “Well…we were just trying to help.”

“Help…what?”

“You and the Prince,” Merry said finally and with great exasperation. “Pippin told me how the two of you were dancing around one another, and I told him if he could somehow induce the two of you to stop being shy before I got out of here and had to witness it myself—”

“And I didn’t even succeed, I suppose a hobbit’s not enough to make him jealous,” Pip lamented.

“Wait, you told me you won the bet!” Merry turned to him indignantly.

“Well, I mean…he saw her kiss me, didn’t he?”

“Well that wasn’t the bet now was it! You owe me my pint back!”

Calaear had covered her face, first to hide her laughter, and then her grimace at the pain it caused; thankfully, at that moment the other subject of the bet arrived, and sternly admonished the hobbits to take their quarrelling elsewhere, as he had business with “his Ranger”.

Merry’s eyes widened, and he looked from Imrahil to Calaear, and then Pippin. “Perhaps you won the bet after all!” he allowed as they hastily quit the room.

Other visitors checked in on her – some illustrious and all less boisterous than Pippin and Merry.

Although she didn’t see them, Frodo and Sam were also residing in the Houses of Healing at present, ostensibly for treatment of burns, but Calaear suspected their ailments were of a more psychological and emotional variety. Faramir and Éowyn would both be removing to the Tower soon, their injuries mending well.

Lothíriel came to visit her, and Calaear was glad to see her, though her manner was odd. She thought perhaps she might ask her about Imrahil, since he visited so often – no longer every hour, but still several times a day – but concluded his daughter must not know about the visits, since she didn’t mention it. They spoke of him but little, and Calaear was satisfied that Lothíriel could suspect nothing. Little did the Ranger know, when the subject was her Prince, her face expressed more emotion than usual, by tenfold. Lothíriel was also quite satisfied with their discussion.

Calaear chafed at the forced inactivity; but at least was able to sate her curiosity about one point. Eradan came to visit her, a few days after she awoke, and revealed to her an extremely interesting piece of news.

Idaira had, in fact, lied to her about one very important point. Or if not lied, withheld.

None knew of Calaear’s involvement with the two Haradrim in the cabin save for Imrahil, so Eradan related the information only in passing. Some of the Easterling and Haradrim forces had remained in the area, but requested parlay with the new King, and so no aggression was enacted against them. But the coronation was not set to occur for a few weeks more, and Aragorn would not act as King until that time, so the enemy forces created a bit of an unnerving thorn in the side of the White City.

Nevertheless, one enterprising soldier, upon conversing with them for strategic purposes, had thought to ask why so many Haradrim had left the battle, and had not been seen or heard from again.

It turned out that Idaira was responsible.

She was no mere soldier in the Haradrim army. She was the _daughter_ of the Harad Chieftain leading the largest single detachment of their soldiers. And when she returned to her people, with Esto in tow, she informed her father how they had been aided by their supposed foe. She played on his great dislike of the orcs, and their dissatisfaction with much that had occurred under Sauron’s reign, and in the end convinced him to withdraw from the battle and return to Harad.

Calaear needn’t bother to conceal her utter astonishment at this turn of events, considering they were shocking enough in themselves that her surprise was not strange. But Eradan expressed a sliver of contemplation that perhaps the Haradrim were not actually evil to a man, but misguided, and twisted by the hand of the Dark Lord. Calaear did her best to nurse this idea by the most subtle of means.

She sent up a little prayer that her young acquaintances had made it back safely, and directed her fervent thanks across the miles that separated them, for the great favor they had done her and her people.

However, she fully expected to get an earful about this situation from Prince Imrahil, as soon as he next visited. Which happened to be within the hour; news traveled fast in the barracks, and she assumed he had been notified before anyone, since he currently had command of all of the Minas Tirith soldiers.

She was right, and only a meeting with Aragorn had prevented him from storming into her chamber the very second he found out.

But as soon as he’d shut the door, and she braced herself for a scold, he paused. He looked at her, but quickly looked away, almost as if he was…uncomfortable, or upset.

“You’re…not going to yell at me?” she asked tentatively, hoping to lighten his strange mood.

He stared at her for another moment, his face falling even further. “I intended to, but when I saw you, I…” He sighed, and sat down in a chair near the bed. He normally sat on the edge of the bed itself, and this sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine.

It took a minute for him to speak.

“How could you so blatantly lie to me, Calaear?” His voice was so…hurt, she was surprised into silence for a moment. “Out of all the things we’ve clashed over, I never thought you would withhold such an important piece of—”

“What do you mean, lie to you? I haven’t—”

“So you’re telling me you had no idea she was the Chieftain’s daughter?”­­­

“Of course I didn’t!” she retorted, exasperated. She struggled to get up­­­, winced, made an angry noise, and then flinched at the pain in her chest. Imrahil sprung forward to assist her, but she waved him away in annoyance. “I must do it myself! I am so tired of being helpless, I can’t—”

“Will you calm yourself and let me help you?” he insisted curtly, and with a frown she let him help her rise so she sat on the edge of the bed. “You nearly died, it’s beyond stubborn for you to think you should be so far ahead in your recovery!”

“Well why don’t you try laying in a bed for a week with healers fussing over you!”

“I would gladly have done so!” his anger finally rushed back in force. “I would have been happy to take your place – by all rights it _should_ have been me that took the blow from that mace, and if you had stopped to think you might have realized I would be less likely to die from it! But once again you rushed in and—”

“Do you think I would stand by and watch the man I love get destroyed by that creature? Who do you think I am?”

“I _was_ destroyed!” he practically shouted, and her eyes widened. “Do you have any idea how it felt, Calaear? To see you fall? To see the life fade from your eyes? I can’t…” His own eyes glittered with tears, as he took a deep breath to try to compose himself, but failed.

This doused any anger or irritation more effectively than anything else could have; she was immediately contrite, and reached out to him. He knelt, and she pulled his head against her chest, even though it hurt. “I’m so sorry, my Prince,” she whispered. “But can’t you see that’s exactly what I was trying to prevent from happening to you? I did think, I promise you – I thought of the possibility that you would die, and I had to do anything I could do prevent it.”

A tear ran down her cheek. “I’d convinced myself I was resigned to all of us dying in that battle, if we must,” she whispered. “If it meant we’d given Frodo the chance to destroy the Ring, then…then we could be proud of what we’d contributed. But…” She shuddered, and her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt. “But when it came down to that moment, when it seemed you might die, and I would live, I just…I couldn’t…”

His arms tightened around her waist, but he quickly released her, and instead leaned back and took her hands. “It seems we are in agreement, then.”

She hastily wiped her eyes. “About what?”

“Neither of us would want to live in a world without the other.”

This nearly caused her to lose what little composure she’d gained, but she laughed through her tears, and put a hand to his face. “I suppose we do agree on that,” she murmured. For a long minute they were content to search one another’s eyes, both finding exactly what they sought.

“That being said,” he continued, his tone shifting to more of a grumble, “You do realize I’m still angry with you. Over this Haradrim girl.” He rose and pulled the chair he’d previously occupied forward, then sat with his knees on either side of hers, and took her hands again.

She sighed. “Yes, fine, but I’m telling you I had no idea of her status. And you must admit, tactically she was smart not to reveal it to me – despite the aid I’d given them, I’m sure she considered the possibility that I might try to use her as a bargaining chip.”

“Indeed, it did occur to me, but knowing you I’m sure you would not have.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “You are correct, my lord. However, I do promise you, I would have notified you of something so consequential. I hope you will believe that.”

He nodded. “I do, and I apologize for briefly thinking otherwise. And…” he looked at the floor for a moment. “I also must apologize for doubting your judgment. Because of the chance you took, the pressure on our forces was greatly reduced during the battle, and many less lives lost to the enemy.”

“Well let’s not get carried away, I mean I played a very small part in—”

“Calaear,” he said sternly, and she broke off, and cleared her throat. “Your kindness to an enemy – something that I doubt almost anyone else would have had the tolerance to offer, including me – resulted in over a thousand of our foes quitting the field without engaging. You are directly responsible for that, and I hope you will allow yourself a little pride over it.”

Her face burned, but she gave a little nod. Over the years she’d gotten commendations from townspeople, other Rangers, and even Chieftains and Kings now and again, but hearing such words from Imrahil brought about an uncharacteristic bashfulness.

He smiled and briefly touched her cheek. “However, I believe it might be best, for now, if we keep your involvement a secret.”

“Yes, by all that is holy please do not tell anyone! I imagine some few would be complimentary but many would call me a traitor, despite the outcome.”

He nodded. “I’m afraid that is likely. After all the ills we have suffered, it will be hard for people to comprehend that some of the Haradrim acted with honor.”

“My lord…do you think that perhaps…these remaining forces signify a shift in the relations between our peoples?”

He contemplated this for a bit. “It’s hard to say. While my gut reaction is to argue that the Haradrim could never be anything other than enemies to us, I think your actions and those of the girl you assisted teach us otherwise, and we should take that into account in our dealings with them.”

Her heart swelled almost painfully with love for him – the commander of armies who had lost innumerable men as well as friends to these invaders, but he was still able to reevaluate his opinions on their enemy.


	16. Chapter 16

Calaear nearly wept for joy when she was told she could remove to one of the guest houses; she’d been staying in the main area of the House of Healing for some days, along with others who were recuperating well, but still chafed at the restrictions there. She suspected she was being ‘released’ a bit ahead of schedule due to being a thorn in the side of the Healers, but she wasn’t about to argue.

Her room in the Great Southern Guest House had been held for her, and when she returned to it, she found the new clothes that Suolda had altered for her folded neatly on the dresser. Along with something else, across the bed, that caused Calaear to stop in her tracks.

A familiar voice sounded behind her, but she didn’t turn; she was too focused on the garment in front of her.

“I’m glad to have you back, my lady,” Suolda said brightly. “And I hope you will not take offense at my impertinence, but I took the liberty of making you something for the Coronation in a couple weeks, I assumed you wouldn’t have anything, and I...” she trailed off in the face of Calaear’s silence as she approached the bed.

“If you don’t like it, I can…make you something else, or—or—”

“Hush,” Calaear whispered, almost fearing to disturb the pristine beauty of the dress that was draped across the coverlet. She reached out and gently touched the fall of lace at the bottom of one sleeve. “This is magnificent, I had no idea you could…”

“Oh my, thank you my lady! I’m so glad you like it—”

“But…Suolda, I fear I am not the best model for such a lovely garment, should you not make something for Lothíriel, perhaps, or the Lady Éowyn?” She dragged her eyes away from the silvery blue of the underskirt to look at the girl.

“I would be pleased to make something for them as well,” she said uncertainly, “but I could not suggest such a thing to them; I decided to offer this to you because I already had your measurements…and because…well…you’re not quite such a fancy lady as they are, meaning no offense.”

Calaear laughed delightedly; it was true she’d had a few moments of self-doubt about this, but Imrahil had put those doubts handily to rest. “I appreciate your astute observation, Suolda, and no offense taken. But if you wish it I would be happy to suggest your services to any and all noble ladies that I come across.”

Suolda’s eyes grew large as dinner plates. “ _Would_ you, my lady! That’s—that’s just grand, I could never thank you enough!”

“Well, considering I’ve nothing to give you in return for this at the moment—”

“Oh think nothing of it, it was merely practice!”

The girl hurried away, and Calaear was left to marvel over the dress again. The color of the underdress was like clouds on the sea – not quite blue or green or grey but in between, with an overdress of fine lace, and a delicate belt of silver chain.

It was true she didn’t like wearing dresses on a daily basis; you could hardly climb a tree in a voluminous skirt, nor draw your bow properly with frothing sleeves getting in the way.

But it didn’t mean she didn’t find them pleasing to look at, and wear on a very rare occasion. And the King’s coronation was certainly the most special occasion she could think of, and deserved for her to make an effort with her appearance.

For the next few days she only saw Prince Imrahil but briefly; people were flocking to the city, more and more arriving each day, coming to witness the coronation of the new King of a reunited Gondor. He still remained outside the city, but his status was well known, and nobility crowded the area between the gates and his Pavilion, waiting to be allowed the chance to pay their respects to him.

Not all were satisfied with this turn of events, some even stubbornly maintaining their skepticism about his right to the throne, but that was to be expected. These naysayers would either be convinced, or they would not; it mattered little to the outcome.

Lothíriel was gone on an errand, but during this time the arrival of one of Imrahil’s sons, Erchirion, was announced. There was also word that the eldest, Elphir, was on his way, with his family in tow.

Calaear was uncharacteristically nervous. Under most circumstances she might not have even met them; she was merely a Ranger, for all her acquaintance with certain illustrious personages. But naturally, the sons of Prince Imrahil would be staying in the best lodgings in the city.

Just down the hall from her.

Knowing there would be more and more people residing there, Calaear wished fervently that she could remove herself back to the Old Guest House, but those rooms were now full. And it seemed ungrateful for her to abandon these luxury lodgings when they’d gone to the trouble of keeping it ready for her even during her injury…

But she couldn’t avoid people; she walked about the green several times a day, and once a day up the broad staircase to the second floor. But by the time she made it back to her room, her lungs hurt and ribs ached.

Clearly she wasn’t quite as fit as she’d argued to the Healers, and her relative weakness irked her as nothing else did.

She would have felt more comfortable in her leather armor, but it had yet to be repaired. And once she saw it – requested it be returned to her, from where they’d cut it off at the Houses of Healing – she sat by the fire with it in her hands, hot tears rising in her throat. She’d only had the armor less than a year, it was true, but it was the best she’d ever owned. And now…it was destroyed. There would be no repairing it, not the chest piece anyway. It was crushed, and looking at it she felt panic grip her for a moment as she recalled those moments on the battlefield. No, this armor would never be worn again.

Unfortunately Imrahil chose that very moment to knock upon her door, and she tossed the ruined leather aside and went to greet him, attempting to smooth the anxiety from her face. But he was nothing if not observant, and before he even embraced her, he squinted, taking in her rather pained expression, her unshed tears.

He caught a glimpse of the armor in the chair by the fire, and sighed. He pulled her against him, and as usual his solicitude nearly undid her careful control.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This is my fault, I—”

“Me throwing myself in front of a troll mace is hardly your fault, my lord,” she tried to be flippant, but since her voice nearly broke it didn’t exactly work.

He sighed heavily. “They wanted to discard it. The chest piece. But I thought you would be angry, since you always wore it and it was…I should have let them.”

“You could not have known how it would affect me,” she said, her voice hollow. “I did not know, when I sent for it. But it is no matter, I couldn’t…I couldn’t wear it any longer. Even if it…” she took a breath, her anger and frustration causing her voice to shake. “Even if it was whole, if _I_ was whole…”

“It’s only been a few weeks, Calaear,” he pointed out, sitting with her on the sofa by the empty fire. “When you are further healed, we can have new armor made.”

She nodded. It would not be Galadhrim armor, but they weren’t the only good leather workers.

He soon had to leave – he’d only stopped by on the way to greet his son, who had just arrived; she did manage to hide any anxiety she felt when he mentioned this, and smiled as she bid him goodbye.

She took to wearing the blue shirt that Suolda had first altered for her; she wasn’t about to prance around in a dress, but she also didn’t need to look as if she was about to go out on a scouting mission at all times.

She ran into Erchirion herself the next day.

His eyes ran over her with what she was sure was disdain, and her previous doubts about her worthiness surged forth. But when he met her eyes, his brow raised, her natural confidence somewhat reasserted itself, and she gave him a barely polite nod, and offered her name.

He replied with his own, his skepticism evident. “I take it you are the one I’ve heard Lothíriel speak of. A…pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m afraid she never mentioned you to me, but of course you had all been gone for some time when I met her in Dol Amroth,” Calaear said pleasantly, and Erchirion missed the militant gleam in her eye.

“Yes, I was told she had a bit of trouble with Corsairs,” he said dismissively.

“Indeed, a blockade outside the city, including one of their stoutest ships that could not be matched by the entire Dol Amroth navy, would be considered a bit of trouble.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It is still an unfortunate show of weakness to allow a Ranger to intercede on her behalf,” he uttered, and Calaear’s initial dislike of him grew.

“Yes, it’s too bad none of her brothers were available to do so for her, is it not?”

Not allowing him the luxury of a response, she bowed and ducked into her room, which they were thankfully right outside of.

Well, now she downright dreaded meeting the other two.


	17. Chapter 17

“Oh pay Erchirion no mind, he’s the git of the family,” Lothíriel muttered irreverently a few days later, having returned from her mysterious absence. “My other two brothers are much nicer, you’ll see. Well, Elphir’s a bit stuffy but pleasant enough – wait till you meet his wife, she’s an absolute treasure, she trips over everything. They’re very sweet together.” Lothíriel smiled at the memory of her brother and his lady, and Calaear was relieved to hear the other two were nothing like the middle son.

“And Amrothos…I do wish he’d been able to stay behind and look after the city instead of me, honestly. He’s my favorite, I suppose because we’re closest in age, but…he’s really the only one of them that’s fun.”

“I suspect I will like him the best as well,” Calaear agreed, but suddenly realized the inappropriate nature of this statement. “Not that it is of any consequence, of course. They shall take little notice of me, and rightly so.”

“Oh shall they? We’ll see about that.”

“Lothíriel…” Calaear’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Which reminds me, I came to tell you of the errand I’ve been on.”

Five minutes later Calaear was gaping at her in disbelief.

“Lothíriel, I can’t believe you went to all this trouble, it must have been a trip of several days to—”

“You’ve already thanked me, Calaear, and yes, it was rather a bit of a trip. But I didn’t go solely to find this, so you needn’t worry.”

Calaear blinked. “…do I want to know?”

Lothíriel gave her a secret smile. “I took someone to see Dol Amroth, actually.”

“Oh really?” Calaear knew exactly of whom the younger girl spoke, and met this admission with an arch glance.

“Well, he was curious!”

“I see.”

“Ostensibly, father sent him there as a show of increased goodwill between our kingdoms, but since of course father was needed here, I went in his stead. Naturally.”

“Lothíriel, if I ever harbored any doubt that you could run an entire kingdom without assistance – which I didn’t – it has now been put to rest.”

“It _was_ rather masterful of me, was it not?”

Calaear just shook her head.

“In any case, we merely stopped by Pelargir on the way back to see how they were faring after you and King Elessar got rid of the Corsairs; they’ve not rebuilt the bridge to the tower, by the way, but luckily they’ve removed all their records to another building.”

“I just…how did you even find it? If it was hidden all this time, I don’t—”

“I told them I had great interest in his voyage, since it involved some of our knights as well, it was sort of a pet project of mine.”

“You continue to astound me.”

“So I asked to see anything they had of his, and it wasn’t his family who showed me, it was others of their household, so they didn’t really care. They had no respect for the tragedy of the story, nor of course the doomed love affair that inspired—”

“Lothíriel.”

“Yes, well, they let me rifle through his things – they were all too pleased to fawn over King Éomer, anyway – and there it was, plain as day. I can’t think his family ever even knew about it, or it seems they would have done _something_. If his nephew cared anything for him, he would have sent it to your mother, and if he didn’t he would have burned it.”

Calaear nodded; her assessment was logical, but it was still a lot to process. Her parents, married after all…

“And…Calaear…there was a letter.”

Calaear’s eyes could have bored a hole into the young Princess.

She reached into the pocket of her dress, and pulled forth a rolled parchment, yellowing with age. But once she gave it into Calaear’s possession, she held out a hand. “Please don’t read it yet – wait till I’m gone.”

Calaear’s brow lowered in consternation, but she nodded. “But what of the marriage document? Where is that?”

Lothíriel had stood, and was now backing toward the door.

“I umm…I gave that…”

“Lothíriel…” Calaear advanced on her.

“I gave it to father,” the girl said in a rush, and then bolted out the door.

## ***

Calaear was glad that Lothíriel had advised her to wait to read the letter. She cried long and hard over the contents, a relic of the brief but poignant joy her parents had known, tears of regret that they hadn’t even had a chance to be happy together, past the few weeks they’d had before she was born. And if only her mother had been able to receive this letter… It was true that Aradwen had been well aware of Faltharan’s feelings for her, something Calaear had always put down to wishful thinking, but now she felt even more cutting regret that she hadn’t believed her.

A few short weeks…that’s all Calaear had had with Imrahil. All she might ever have, since she had never expected anything to come of their relationship. She knew he loved her, and of course she loved him – now understanding, all too well, the way her mother had felt about her father.

But…now that this new document had come to light…

What did it mean? Anything?

She racked her mind for the downside to this development. She didn’t want to manipulate Imrahil in any way, and if she’d had any part in this discovery that’s how it would feel. But she hadn’t known anything about it…

She shook her head. Lothíriel had already ‘outed’ her to Imrahil, so to speak – it was out of her hands. Whatever he chose to do with the information…

It was her natural inclination to dispute it if he chose to suggest that they marry. But why? If she thought logically about it, there was little argument against the match.

The most important factor – which she had to admit she wasn’t sure would even impede anything – was that she was a Ranger. Which meant, she was emphatically not some noble lady who would be content to languish in the palace of Dol Amroth and…learn needlepoint, or something equally awful.

But the truth was, in her travels she’d come across quite a few ladies who were independent, strong-willed, and had never done any needlepoint in their lives. Even women who ran their towns and cities in their own right. So her habits needn’t be an insurmountable obstacle.

And originally, Imrahil’s rank had been what convinced her they could never have a future; he was a Prince of Gondor, and she was just a Ranger. But now it came out that her mother had married into the family of the Lord of Lebennin. There was also the matter of the line her mother descended from, but that wasn’t something she could prove. Either way, her lineage was no longer an issue.

And had it ever been, really? He already had heirs aplenty – three sons and already one grandson. There was no need for him to produce any more, so bloodlines might not even enter into it…

Before she could think further on this, the object of her ruminations burst into the room.

Calaear had expected for him to be shocked, or pleased, or any number of other things. But instead, he was…

Angry?

“What is this, Calaear?” He waved a piece of paper in his hand.

“I assume,” she said calmly, with a raised eyebrow, “that it is the document of which your daughter recently spoke to me.”

“Did you ask her to find this? Why?”

Calaear blinked. “Did _I—_ of course not, are you mad?” Indignation drove her to a bit more hyperbole than she normally employed.

“Then what possessed her to go looking for such a thing? I suppose if you wanted it for your own peace of mind I would not have taken issue, but then she gives it to _me—”_

“My lord!” She interrupted her, her anger beginning to rise in its own right. “Are you suggesting that I sent _your_ daughter…to _my_ father’s city…to find a document…with which to - what, manipulate you into…into something?” She paused between her words for grim emphasis, but when she got to the end, she couldn’t quite say “into marriage” and trailed off lamely.

“Manipulate me into—I fear that Troll’s blow was more injurious to your head than to the rest of you!”

Her mouth dropped open. “Sir!”

“If this did not by all rights belong to you, I would tear it up on the spot,” he growled, and instead tossed the scroll on a table and strode towards her.

Calaear actually backed up a step, but then took a breath and stood her ground, putting her hands on her hips. “I fail to understand—”

“Calaear,” he interrupted almost menacingly, “if I wish to marry you I will do so, and the idea that you felt you had to legitimize your heritage to me is absolutely insulting! You must know that I love you regardless of the existence of a piece of paper or—mm…”

This time it was he who stepped back, but only because she surprised him by throwing her arms around his waist and pressing her lips to his. It only took him a second to reassess the situation, and then he returned her embrace and her kisses with great fervor.

When they finally parted, Calaear was grinning. “Ridiculous man,” she whispered.

“How am I ridiculous—”

“I love you.”

It took a few more minutes for them to discuss this – without a word spoken. They ended up in the chair before the fire, with her in his lap.

“I didn’t know anything about it, my Prince,” she reiterated softly, her head on his shoulder.

“I’m…coming to understand that. But...”

“I think your daughter was perhaps more astute about the situation than either of us.”

“Well considering she instigated an argument in which I yelled at you quite unfairly—”

“It’s alright. You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Why do you think I give you so much cheek?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “All this time…”

She kissed his jaw. “I’m afraid you may have to get used to it. Assuming, of course, that you didn’t just propose to me out of anger alone.”

He growled. “I’ve ruined it now, haven’t I?”

She pretended to ponder this. “Hmm. I would say…no, not really. As I mentioned I quite adore you when you’re furious. Well, I suppose I’ll admit I adore you all the time.”

She gave an uncharacteristic squeak when he stood abruptly and set her on her feet.

He pulled her close, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Calaear,” he whispered, and with a blink of his serious grey eyes her mood shifted from playful to profound. “Light of the Sea,” he kissed her forehead. “I humbly ask, that you be the light of my heart, for all the days that stretch out before us. You can give me as much cheek as you please, for a hundred years or more, if you will just say yes…”

Her chin trembled. “My lord, I would forego any impertinence whatsoever for a full hundred years, if it meant I could spend them with you.”

“I do hope you won’t,” he said softly, his lips a breath away from hers. “Someone’s got to keep me from getting too stuffy.”

She actually giggled. “I shall endeavor to do my best.”

The conversation devolved after that, but Calaear was perfectly happy with the direction it took.

Until Imrahil’s hand found its way under her shirt, and she recoiled, flinching away from him as if struck.

He quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, my love—”

His endearment caused a sweet ache in her chest, but it couldn’t combat the disgust she suddenly felt. Not for him, but for herself.

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” she managed, but she clearly was not, and he approached, reaching out to take her hand again.

She snatched it away. “I…I can’t,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. She felt repulsive, and if he wasn’t repulsed then she would have to do it for him. “Please, just go.”

The hurt on his face was like yet another twist to the knife in her gut.

“Calaear, I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re so damned stubborn, I—I refuse! I will not go! There, I can be stubborn as well,” he muttered, crossing his arms and glaring at her.

She stared at him in shock.

“You don’t understand,” she muttered, confused.

“Then explain.” His gaze softened. “If you really don’t want me here, I will leave, but I’m asking you, please—”

It was so much easier when he was angry, or annoyed. When he was tender she couldn’t refuse him.

She looked down. “I don’t know if I’ll ever…be _right_ again,” she whispered. “So many others went through just as much as I did, or worse, it isn’t right for me to be so weak, but I can’t—”

“Calaear, how many times do I have to tell you?” His brow was like a storm cloud again. “There is _no one_ here who went through worse, the ones that did…they’re—” he broke off and looked away. “If anyone deserves time, it is you,” he insisted quietly.

She shook her head. “Very well. But it is not…the _physical_ pain that haunts me,” she admitted. “That would be frustrating enough, but what I am truly ashamed of is…is…”

His concern was written heavily on his face as he closed the distance between them again, but didn’t touch her. “What have you to be ashamed of, my love?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “How could you ever bear to look upon me again? To touch me? I am _grotesque_!”

Tears escaped the corners of her eyes as she imagined how horrified he would be, if he actually saw what she looked like underneath the shirt, or if his hand accidentally brushed one of the five scars that dotted her torso…

She did have other scars; she didn’t understand why she was so painfully self-conscious about these, but they somehow seemed intrinsically tied to her own worth, and her happiness or lack thereof.

Her eyes flew open when she felt a tug at the hem of her shirt.

She grabbed Imrahil’s hand. “What are you doing??”

“I’m trying to show you that you have nothing to fear,” he said softly, holding her eyes, slowly pulling at the fabric.

She shook her head halfheartedly, unable to keep her chin still, but then she realized; it was better this way.

No one knew what was between them, yet – it was still private, he could still back out.

She took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She should have thought of this before his declaration earlier – should have stopped him then. But her mind wasn’t on the scars at that point.

She let go of his wrists.

Knowing she had a hard time lifting her arms above her head, still, he pulled the back of her shirt forward over her head, and then down her arms. She had her underthings below that, of course, but they hid nothing. She had a moment of panic, grabbed him again, but once more she mastered her reaction and released him. Just get it over with, that was best.

The shirt fell to the floor.

At the last moment she knew she couldn’t bear to see his face as his attentiveness shifted to disgust. She closed her eyes, brows drawing together with the concentration required to maintain her still, stoic silence.

After a second his hand slid around her back, and the warmth of it against her bare skin cut through her anxiety, invaded senses that were all on edge awaiting his rejection.

Then his lips met hers, and his gentleness nearly broke her. But his kiss was only soft for a moment; quickly his embrace began echo with the depth of his longing, and she couldn’t help the noise she made as she kissed him back.

Then she tasted the salt of his tears.

She pulled away, searching his face. “You cannot look at them either, can you?”

He closed his eyes briefly, but opened them again to answer her. “I cannot, without pain,” he admitted. “As much as they must physically hurt you, each one is like is like an arrow in my heart.”

She gave a sigh that was almost a laugh, and shook her head. Her relief at his reaction – though it wasn’t what she expected, he most certainly was not repelled by her – overwhelmed her, made her almost giddy. “So poetic, my lord,” she said with the beginning of a smile, her eyes wet.

“You called me something else, once,” he murmured.

“My love…” She was happy to say it. More than happy.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and wiped a tear from her eye. “You know…I would move you into my rooms in a moment if I thought it were an option.”

“Oh, I never meant for—”

“Shh. The point is—look at me—the point is we both know you are not well enough for that. Tell me I am wrong.”

Her chin trembled, but she had to nod. “I am not. But…I will be. I swear it, I will do whatever I must—"

“You must be patient with yourself, my lady, and give—"

“I beg your pardon, I deal with the staff calling me that, since they assume I’ve more rank than I do because of my lodging here, but why are you calling me so?” She scolded him, but she was smiling.

“Tit for tat,” he replied with amusement, and kissed her on the nose. “Besides, I should get used to it, shouldn’t I?”

She sucked in a breath. “ _Please_ , my lord, you will make me swoon!”

He emitted a bark of laughter, and she smiled to see him so amused.

Immediately after they parted, Calaear descended on the Houses of Healing with a question she hadn’t thought to ask the entire time she was there.

“Do you have any salves that will mitigate these scars?”


End file.
